


Promises to Keep

by DolBlathanna



Series: Promises to Keep [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (but they're sad lol), Angst, Book Spoilers, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Original Character(s), Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Road Trips, Slow Burn, Trauma, Trauma Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2020-09-08 03:41:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 171,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20298763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DolBlathanna/pseuds/DolBlathanna
Summary: When Geralt’s life is thrown into danger, Yennefer and Regis must work together to save him from a terrible fate.A story following the canon of the Witcher book series and game series, set one year after the events of Blood and Wine.





	1. A Monster in Skellige

**Author's Note:**

> Important game decisions that are canon in this story:  
Geralt romances Yennefer  
Ciri defeats the White Frost and becomes a witcheress  
Nilfgaard wins the war; Temeria gains independence  
Hearts of Stone – Geralt saves Olgierd and banishes Gaunter O’Dimm  
Blood and Wine – ribbon ending - Dettlaff dies, Syanna lives

_“Monster Problem_

_For anyone likely to survive more than two minutes fighting a beast, is in need of a bit of coin, or goes by the name Geralt of Rivia:_

_We’ve got a monster problem in the fields outside of Kaer Sliabh. Something’s been stealing our livestock as of late, attacking people who walk on the road to the castle, and seems to have acquired a taste for both sheep and humans alike. Jarl Carrik would be willing to give a generous reward for anyone who can slay the beast. If he is reading this, we would prefer the assistance of the witcher known as Geralt of Rivia. If this is not possible, then any whoreson would suffice. Kaer Sliabh can be found east of Boxholm._

_The inhabitants of Kaer Sliabh.” – Contract found in Fayrlund_

It started off as a contract.

The moorland is bitterly cold as Geralt returns to Kaer Sliabh, a castle owned by Clan Drummond. A chort head hangs from Roach’s saddle, swaying with each step. Even in his thick furred armour, Skellige’s mountainous gales still chill him to the core. Snow is starting to settle on his hair and beard, and already his hands are numb. But he hasn’t far to go now; the looming castle lies before him, surrounded by white mountains that are dotted with frozen ruins. Somewhere to the east lies the still-abandoned town of Boxholm.

Really, he shouldn’t have taken on this contract. It’s an unnecessary detour, and not a fun one at that. He and Yen are here to meet with Ciri, just south of Kaer Trolde, for a well needed catch up. It’s been four years since she vanquished the White Frost, and three years since she set off as a fully trained witcheress. Periodically, the three of them will meet up, but Geralt and Yen try not to overwhelm her with frequent contact. She needs room to spread her wings, live her life freely and as joyfully as she wants. But neither Geralt nor Yen can deny the longing they feel to see her, and the gaps between visits always seem too long.

So, once more, they’re meeting to see how she’s fared before winter approaches. Even the witcher, with his mutation-driven limited emotions, can’t help but feel a spark of anticipation at the thought of seeing his daughter again. Perhaps they’ll even convince her to stay in Corvo Bianco for the winter, in place of the now empty Kaer Morhen.

In fact, Yen has already gone ahead to meet Ciri, but Geralt had insisted on having a wander around the familiar isle again. Partly because his old lifestyle has ingrained the habit of travelling into him, even now, but partly because he was too proud to let Ciri realise how much of a helplessly doting father he’s become by visiting her so quickly. Of course, Yen doesn’t care and told him not to take too long. She’s not gonna be happy – he’s taken a much longer detour than she’d wanted.

He’d seen the contract on a notice board in the nearest village, Fayrlund. It vaguely described a monster terrorising livestock and preying on those who travelled between the castle and the village. What really caught Geralt’s eye, though, was a final passage to the contract.

‘_If he is reading this, we would prefer the assistance of the Witcher known as Geralt of Rivia._’

A call by name…It was enough to make Geralt trek all the way to the new castle of Clan Drummond. There, a steward greeted him. Promised a reward of 600 crowns – a hell of a lot of money that Geralt just couldn’t turn down.

The contract in itself was simple. After speaking to some farm hands, and some witnesses in the village, Geralt figured out very quickly it was a hungry chort, having been driven off its own territory and resorting to snacking on goats and the occasional human. Not an easy beast to bring down, but Geralt had certainly faced worse over the years.

And now, he returns to the castle to collect the promised 600 crowns, the bloody chort head at his leg, the last of the Swallow toxicity leaving his system. Then, to Ciri and Yen, he tells himself. No more detours. Go see your goddamn daughter.

Kaer Sliabh, owned by Jarl Carrik Harelip, is opposing and solemn. Nothing the size of Kaer Trolde, but still impressive. Farm hands and workers quickly get out of his way as he enters the courtyard, all looking at him with that age-old suspicion and disgust that he’s stopped giving a shit about. Apparently, even helping to fight in the prophesied Rag nar RoOg isn’t enough to change everyone’s opinions about witchers.

The steward stands in front of a large, fortified door, seemingly unaffected by the cold – probably used to it. He has a shrewd face, thin and slightly gaunt. Unlike so many other men in Skellige, his beard is neatly trimmed, his hair slicked back with care. He looks Geralt up and down with sharp blue eyes.

“You’ve returned intact, then.”

Geralt gets off Roach and holds up the chort’s head. “A chort. Got driven off its territory. Got hungry."

“I see.” The steward peers at the head in disdain. “What drove it off?”

“Dunno. Something bigger and fiercer.” Not something he’d particularly like to fight.

“Well, ugly fucker got what was comin’ to him either way.”

“My pay?”

The steward shakes his head. “Not mine to give. The jarl wants to see you. He’ll give it to you himself.”

Geralt sighs. Another delay. But he’s not leaving without the coin. “All right, fine. But let’s make it quick.”

-

The steward leads him through the castle, much warmer than the bitter outside. Feeling returns to Geralt’s hands, and the snow melts off his armour. The halls are lined with animal trophies, mainly bears and wolves. An avid hunter, then? Or maybe a show off.

“Explain something to me.” Geralt says as they walk. “I always thought that Clan Drummond’s territory was in Kaer Muire, near Holmstein. Why is the new jarl of Clan Drummond all the way up here?”

“When Madman Lugos died, four years ago, his cousin became the new jarl. But he was stupid – waged a war with the An Craite without the tactical skills to succeed. He lost very quickly, and lost favour with the rest of his clan for turning traitor during Rag nar RoOg and the attack of the Black Ones.” The steward explains.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Honour is taken so seriously in Skellige, after all.

“Luckily for the clan, his brother Davin stepped in and made peace talks with the An Craite to fix the rift between the clans and prevent anymore unnecessary bloodshed. Since the An Craite had seized some of Clan Drummond’s land in the past, Queen Cerys offered this castle back to them as a show of good will. Davin took over as the jarl for a short time – and a good jarl he was too. Smart man. But a bad hunting accident fucked up his leg and he decided to step down as jarl. His eldest son has taken his place now. Jarl Carrik resides here, while his father Davin maintains Kaer Muiren.” The steward explains.

“Is that a good thing? Lots of changing powers in Clan Drummond. From what I’ve seen, it can cause unrest.” Geralt remarks.

“Jarl Carrik isn’t as…skilled as his father when it comes to diplomacy. He’s a young jarl, after all. Lacking experience.” The steward says tactfully. “But he’s good at riling a crowd, inspiring his men. That’s equally as important.”

The steward stops in front of a heavy oak door, knocks, then steps away. “The jarl’s just ahead. Show him the trophy, and he’ll give you the money.”

Geralt nods, though for some reason, he’s feeling a sense of unease. He shakes it off. He’s just anxious to see Ciri, is all.

The hall is filled with music, shouting and the smell of lager. Men gather around the tables, eating meat, boasting about raids, spilling their beverages in their drunkenness. In one corner, two men are fist fighting. Typical Skellige feast, then.

All the men are wearing the same purple tartan colours – all the same clan. And sitting in a throne at the front of the hall, not touching the food or drink in front of him, watching the hall with a steely gaze, is a young man with a thick black beard and a scar across his nose and cheek.

_So that’s Carrik_, Geralt thinks to himself. He certainly leaves an impression in the room, though Geralt can’t quite put his finger on why. Not from his build – unimpressive – or from his face – pretty damn ugly. He just seems…impatient?

As soon as Geralt steps forwards, Carrik’s gaze shifts to him. A smile creeps onto his face, the kind of smile that makes Geralt want to punch it off. He beckons the witcher forwards.

As Geralt walks, none of the other feast goers pay any attention to him, even with the monster head hanging in a string bag. At the end of the hall, Carrik turns to the side and shouts. In response, a dark-skinned elven man comes to his side. Hm. Someone from Ofier?

The closer Geralt gets, the more he hears and sees.

“That wine we pilfered from the raid on the Black Ones – bring it to me. I feel like fine dining tonight.”

The dark-skinned elf simply nods. His face is blank, green eyes almost glazed over. Something’s not right here. For starters, his clothing is very clearly not fit for this climate. An almost bare chest, and thin, impractical trousers. There’s a cut on his left temple, the blood matting the surrounding black hair, the surrounding skin purple from a bruise. And he’s wearing shackles on his hands.

A slave. Damn it. A custom that Cerys killed some time ago, but still keeps raring it’s ugly head across the isles.

Then something strange happens. Geralt’s medallion begins to vibrate.

_What is he?_ Geralt watches the Ofieri elf walk away. He looks entirely humanoid. Vampire? No, no way a vampire could be controlled with simple shackles.

“Ah, Geralt of Rivia.” Carrik’s voice grabs his attention. “I see you’ve solved my monster problem.”

Geralt hands him the trophy. “A chort.”

“Well, I never.” Carrik holds it up to his face. “Fucking hideous. Tell me, how big was it? Big as a horse?”

“Bigger. I’m here to collect my reward.”

Carrik laughs. “You’re very to the point, aren’t you? Very well.” He turns to the side and shouts, “Fox Face!”

The Ofieri elf returns, carefully carrying a tray with wine and a glass on it. He sets it down in front of Carrik.

“Bring me my bag.”

Again, the Ofieri elf nods, and Geralt can feel the medallion vibrating. Before he turns to go, the elf glances at Geralt – then pauses. Looks at the medallion on his chest, the swords on his back.

“Go on! Stop gawkin’!”

Quickly, the elf continues. This time, Geralt watches him go. He walks past a group of the feast goers. One man grins, winks at his companions, then sticks his foot out. The Ofieri elf trips, landing on the floor to the sound of jeering and laughing.

With effort, the elf slowly tries to get to his feet. He’s stopped by a kick to the ribs, and doubles over in pain, instinctively shielding his head.

“Now, lads.” Carrik calls over. “I don’t wanna be waiting for my bag all fuckin’ night.”

At this, the feast goers leave him be. The Ofieri elf remains curled up for a few moments more, then slowly gets to his feet and continues walking, as if nothing happened.

“So. Geralt of Rivia. How about we chat while we wait?”

“Sorry, don’t like associating myself with slave owners.”

To this, Carrik simply laughs. “Is that so? Shame. There were plenty of questions I wanted to ask you. For instance,” he takes a sip of the wine, “is it true you helped our good queen Cerys uncover the plots of the traitor, Birna?”

“Maybe.”

“How did she do it, then? The An Craite massacre?”

“Poisoned some Berserkers.”

“Berserkers? Hah! The stuff of fairy tales. What a load of bollocks.”

“Believe me or don’t. I don’t give a shit.”

“Hm.” Carrik leans on the arm of his throne. His gaze drills into Geralt. It makes him feel uncomfortable, so he simply stares even harder back, not showing a single sign of unease.

“Why did you help our good queen Cerys?”

“She’s smart. Sensible. Good plans for the future of Skellige.”

“And Birna? You had it out for her, huh?”

“No.” Why is he bringing up her? That was four years ago. “Didn’t really care until she killed all those innocent people at the An Craite massacre. I want my reward now.” Enough of this chit chat.

“Of course, of course.”

The Ofieri elf arrives with a large hunting bag. He avoids Geralt’s gaze, and only glances briefly at the vibrating medallion on his chest. His task done, he takes a few steps back, but stays in the hall.

“Now for your pay.” Carrik takes a deep breath, then shouts out, “Quiet!”

Immediately, the feast goers fall silence. Something tells Geralt to be careful. He tenses.

“You know, I did find that wench Birna an absolute pain in the behind.” He’s rummaging in the bag, doing something that Geralt can’t see. “I really did. But she wasn’t all wrong, you know. She’d been making plans, for what she assumed would be her son’s reign as king of Skellige. Plans that would’ve been very beneficial for me.”

Geralt glances at the feast goers. All are armed. He gets ready to grab his sword.

“And Cerys? Good, smart, sensible queen Cerys? She’s forgotten our traditions, our ways, our very being. We are warriors. Yet, with her ruling us, we are nothing but tame lapdogs.”

_Shit. Get ready. _

Carrik stands up. “You should’ve stayed out of this, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt barely manages to dodge the attack. Carrik lunges forwards with a long dagger, much faster than Geralt expected. He doesn’t aim for the chest, where chain mail protects his heart and lungs. Instead, he aims below by Geralt’s right flank, where the armour is sparser. Geralt feels it cut through cloth and pierce his skin, drawing blood from his right abdomen.

But it’s a shallow wound, superficial. In one clean motion, Geralt unsheathes his steel sword and brings it down on Carrik. It hits the nape of his neck, and Carrik falls, blood gushing from the artery.

Instantly, men start running at him. _Great. If I’m late to see my daughter because of this shit…_

One man swings his axe at Geralt, and loses his arm to Geralt’s sword for his effort. Another tries to parry with him, catch him off guard. His blow glances off Geralt’s armour, and Geralt thrusts his sword through his chest. A cross bow bolt shoots past a few inches away from Geralt’s face. Quickly, he closes the distance between him and his attacker, and cuts him down.

More are running at him. There are too many, he realises. He grabs a Grapeshot bomb and throws it towards the group. They scatter – some are able to scramble out of the way of the blast; some aren’t so lucky. The stained carpet promptly sets on fire from the bomb, growing alarmingly fast.

Good, a separation and a distraction. Geralt sheathes his sword, and picks up the deceased jarl’s chair. He throws it at the window, smashing it. Then he rips Carrik’s cloak from his body and places it on the base of the window ledge, covering the remaining broken glass.

He turns to the Ofieri elf, who has his back pressed up against the wall, paralysed with fear. Geralt holds out his hand.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise. Come with me.”

The elf stares at his hand, then at Carrik's body, lying in a pool of his own blood. He grabs Geralt’s hand.

Geralt leads him to the window, all the while his medallion going crazy. “Climb out.” He gets ready to boost up the elf.

“Murderer!”

Geralt turns just in time as another man charges at him, sword aloft. Steel clashes. He protects his face from the blade, but he’s taken by surprise. Geralt’s own blade is forced from his hand, and clatters to the stone floor.

Shit. The man raises his sword again, but before he can strike, he freezes. Blood splutters from his mouth, and he drops down dead, an axe sticking out of his back. Behind him, the elf is staring at the body with contempt.

“Thanks.” Geralt grabs his sword and sheathes it, then helps the elf climb through the window. He follows quickly – the fire is getting bigger.

Outside, the cold air hurts to breathe in. Geralt lands in the bushes next to the elf, who’s shivering violently.

Geralt whistles for Roach, then pulls Carrik’s cloak from the window. He shakes out the broken glass, then drapes it over the elf.

“Hang in there. When we get out of here, I’ll get you some better clothes.”

The Ofieri elf just nods, too cold to even speak.

A few moments later, Roach canters around the corner, neighing and running in circles, seemingly startled. Geralt calms her with Axii, and realises why – a group of the farmhands are running towards her with pitchforks, accompanied by one of the jarl’s warriors. They know Geralt has killed their lord.

“Quickly.” Geralt mounts Roach, and helps the elf climb on, who then clings tightly to his back. “Run, Roach!”

Roach breaks into a gallop, and Geralt steers her away from the castle. A fire arrow whizzes last them. The shouts of the jarl’s men are getting further away. Geralt looks back behind him. The inside of the castle is glowing orange from the blaze, smoke billowing from the windows. He didn’t realise the fire would spread so fast. He hopes that none of the workers got caught up in the flames, but somehow, he feels absolutely no guilt over Jarl Carrik’s death.

-

Even after the castle is out of sight, Geralt doesn’t stop. He travels a long distance, only slowing his horse when they’re miles from the castle and when Roach is beginning to tire. To be honest, he isn’t sure where he is – surrounded by heather, a forest to the south, further away from the mountains now, no sign posts or villages anywhere near. The only sign of civilisation is an abandoned house, it’s roof slightly caved in, the door hanging by its hinges.

“That’ll do.” Geralt gets off his horse, and turns to the Ofieri elf. “Stay here. Need to check it first.” Houses aren’t abandoned for no good reason. And if there are bodies inside, he’ll have to burn them, to stop necrophages from coming. If everything’s fine, they can stay there for the night. He suddenly feels exhausted.

Inside, though, the house is empty of corpses. A large house, but with only two rooms: a room for preparing food, and a bedroom with two beds, one somewhat smaller than the other. It’s dusty, but seemingly intact. In fact, there’s still food on the shelves – though all rotted now – and a pot hangs over an empty fireplace. A doll sits on the bed, clearly well loved by its owner and wearing a handmade dress, and by it are a pile of clothes. Good, The Ofieri elf can have those.

Next to the bed is a journal. The first page says, in shaky childish handwriting,

‘_Journal belonging to Sorcha, age 7’ _

Geralt flicks through the pages. Some are covered in doodles of a black and white dog, some used for practising spelling difficult words, but most are entries about trivial matters. He reads some of the later entries.

‘_Dear <strike>Dairy</strike> Diary, today Mammy showed me how to make bread. We got flower everywhere but it was very fun. I gave Lucky some because he works hard in the fields with Daddy, but that’s a secret so don’t tell anyone!_

_Dear diary, today it is my birthday! Mammy and Daddy got me a doll and we ate nice food. I love my doll so much! I have called her Serafina and Mammy says she will show me how to make her a dress._

_Dear diary, Daddy says that we have to move to Fayrlund. I cried because I love our house, but Mammy says there is something in the fields that have been eating our sheep. We will have to leave tomorrow morning._’

Hm, a monster. Too far from the castle to be the chort – maybe it was whatever monster forced the chort towards the jarl’s residence.

But they left some of their things behind, including the girl’s prized doll. Were they killed by the monster? No, the house doesn’t show sign of any enormous beast charging through, and he didn’t see any bodies, or smell any blood. He guesses that before they could fully pack, they spotted the monster coming for the house and the rest of the livestock, so they got out of here before it reached them, with no time to bring most of their possessions. He hopes the family made it to the village all right, and he decides to take the doll, just in case he ever finds the girl.

A beast big enough to scare off a chort, though…Geralt considers moving on from this house, travelling a bit more. If the monster is still around, their presence could attract it. But he’s so…so goddamn tired. And the house is infinitely warmer than outside, thanks to the shelter from the wind.

Fuck it. They’ll stay here.

A voice in the back of his mind tells him this is a bad idea, but his head feels fuzzy from exhaustion so he ignores it. Instead, he grabs the clothes and walks back outside to the Ofieri elf.

“House is fine. Here, take these.” He passes him the clothes, and pauses. Somethings not right.

Then he realises. He’s not cold. He thought it was just the house, but even out here in the open, he feels warm. He’s sweating, and the shallow wound at his side really hurts.

The Ofieri elf is staring at him, and he looks concerned.

“…Are you all right?” His voice is quiet, accented.

The world starts swaying, and Geralt can barely stand up right.

_The dagger, _he realises in panic. _It was poisoned._

He blacks out.


	2. Sleep

_“Fiends are walking mountains of muscle capped with horned, tooth-filled heads. Like their rarer cousins, bumbakvetches, they live in thick forests, swamps and bogs. When possible they avoid humans, but when not possible, they kill them, and without much difficulty.” – The Bestiary on fiends._

When Geralt wakes up, the pain is still there.

He’s lying on one of the beds, his armour removed. His swords are propped up next to the mattress. His throat feels dry, and his side is aching dully, but his head doesn’t feel quite so fuzzy anymore. There’s a genuine warmth to the room – he turns his head carefully, and sees through the open door to the kitchen area that the fireplace has been lit. The Ofieri elf is sitting in front of it, the cloak still draped around him and the clothes Geralt gave him sitting by his side. Geralt realises that he’s trying to pick the lock on the shackles. He can’t put on the clothes otherwise.

Geralt tries to call out, but his throat is too dry. His coughing is enough to catch the Ofieri elf’s attention, though.

He walks over, sitting on the edge of the bed. Again, Geralt tries to talk, but the Ofieri elf just presses water to his lips, probably one he took from Geralt’s pack. Geralt takes it from him and drinks. His hand is shaking, but he doesn’t spill it.

“…Thanks.” He motions to the shackles. “Need some help?”

The Ofieri elf nods, and holds out his wrists. With effort, Geralt reaches for his hunting knife, then picks the lock, more through force than technique. With a heavy thud, the shackles drop to the floor.

“Aah!” The Ofieri elf grasps his wrists, gasping. Then he pulls the cloak hood firmly over his head, and turns away. All the while, Geralt’s medallion vibrates.

“Dimeritium?” He guesses.

“…Yes. I thank you.” Hurriedly, the elf leaves the room and gathers up the clothes. Geralt looks away to give him some privacy, but he’s curious. Is he in his real form now? Just what exactly is he?

After he’s done, the Ofieri elf comes over again. He’s still got the hood up. Carefully, he removes the dressing he put on the wound, and begins to dab it with alcohol.

It stings, a lot. Geralt grits his teeth from the pain.

“Where’s Roach?” He asks, mainly to distract himself.

“Roach?”

“My horse.”

“She is outside. Do not worry, she is fine.” Pretty good Common, almost fluent, but with an obvious accent. Definitely from Ofier.

“Name’s Geralt. What’s yours?”

The Ofieri elf hesitates, glancing down at the swords.

“…Ameer.”

“Ameer.” Geralt repeats, trying to copy the pronunciation. “How old are you, Ameer?”

Ameer hesitates, then says quickly, “28 summers.”

Hm. His appearance matches the age, but Geralt gets the impression he’s lying, that he's much older. Why else would he hesitate about his age, when elves are an already long-lived race? “You from Ofier?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“…Yes.”

He says nothing more on the matter, provides no clues as to how he ended up a slave to a jarl from Skellige. Instead, he asks,

“You are…They call you a witcher in these lands?”

“Yeah. I’m not gonna hurt you, though. As long as you don’t hurt me.”

Ameer considers this, and nods. “Your wound…It is not healing correctly.”

“Poison?”

“I am sorry, yes.”

“I’m supposed to be immune to poison.” Geralt frowns. “Whatever it is, it must be pretty damn strong.”

“Yes, I am…confused. I have not seen a poison like this.” Not exactly encouraging news to hear.

“Carrik - He set a trap for me, huh?” The fact he was named on the contract – he should’ve been more careful.

“…Yes. Carrik did not like you. I do not know why.”

“Cause I interfered with Skellige politics.” Geralt sighs. He doesn’t regret his actions that day, but he understands more and more why Yen wanted to get away from the realm of politics. No matter what choice you make, someone will end up being your enemy.

“Hm. I need more…resources.” He stands up. “I must go and collect some herbs. I will not be long.”

Giving one last wary look to the swords, he leaves the house, his footsteps light against the creaking floorboards.

Slowly, Geralt sits up in the bed. The pain from the wound sharply increases with the movement. Looking down at it, he sees that the dressing has been expertly applied, even with limited resources available. Before he ended up in Skellige, was Ameer a doctor? Or is he just someone who’s had a lot of experience with injuries, a soldier?

Geralt looks out of the window. It’s day time. A mist has fallen over the moorlands and the forest, its trees orange and red in their autumn colours. The sky is overcast, so it’s hard to tell, but Geralt figures its probably midday. He must have been passed out for a long while, then. Damn it. Yen and Ciri will be wondering where the hell he is. Hopefully they won’t be too pissed off when he eventually arrives with an Ofieri, who definitely isn’t just an elf, and a poisoned wound in his side.

He didn’t even get the damn reward. For fucks sake.

Carefully, he gets out of the bed. They can’t stay here for long. If that monster from the child’s journal returns, their only option will be to run; he can’t fight in this state. But every movement he makes is painfully slow. Even trying to put his armour back on takes an age, which then presses up against the wound and makes it sting even more. Eventually he has to sit back down, exhausted from the simple action.

Outside the window, he can hear Roach eating the grass. A raven sits by the windowsill, bashing a snail against the frame. Sitting in the dying heather, a red fox watches him. And somewhere in the autumnal forest, he can hear the bellowing of stags as they rut. All good signs. The second a big monster appears, all and any creatures in the vicinity will get the hell out.

The raven finishes its job and eats the snail’s slimy body, then fixes Geralt with its beady eye and cocks its head.

A raven… “Hey. Um…” He feels kind of foolish, but at least no one’s around. “Can you pass on a message? There’s this guy, Regis – he’s a vampire, lives in Nilfgaard – if you find him, tell him…tell him I think I’m in trouble.”

The raven croaks, and flies away. Geralt has no idea if it’ll pass on the message. And Regis is in Nilfgaard, anyway. Even if the message does reach him, he’ll either have cured the poison or be dead by then.

With no warning, he’s suddenly overcome with a horrible wave of dread – a dread that he rarely feels. Is it the nature of the poison? The fact that it’s so strong, even his witcher mutations can’t drive it off?

No. It’s not just that. There’s something else. A feeling he can’t shake.

But, for some reason, he can’t quite figure out why. Only thing he can do is gather his belongings. As soon as Ameer returns, they’ll leave, injury or no. They’ve stayed here long enough. The risk of the monster is too high.

Grunting with effort, Geralt bends down to pick up his swords and fasten them to his back. If he retraces their steps from last night, he might be able to reach the village. He doesn’t plan on staying there since he killed the jarl, but from there he should be able to figure out the fastest route back to Kaer Trolde. Once they get there, Yen can help treat the poison. Surely she’ll know what it is. If she doesn’t…

Geralt shakes his head. No point worrying about that right now. Leaning onto the walls for support, he heads outside to Roach.

“Ameer!” He shouts, his voice echoing out across the heather. “We need to go!”

Silence. No response.

Wait…

Silence.

The deer have gone quiet. The fox has gone, too.

Roach lifts her head and looks towards the forest. She starts whinnying, pacing back and forth nervously.

“Shit!” Geralt mounts Roach, the action making his wound rage in agony. “Go!”

Roach begins to gallop from the house. A moment later, Geralt hears a roar.

A fiend bursts from the trees. Its hair is thick and scraggly, black with white stripes that have been splattered with red from a wound. It sees the mare running, and gives chase.

“Damn it!” Even as Roach runs, the fiend keeps on chasing. He doesn’t understand, fiends don’t normally hunt humans. Then he realises: the wound, it must’ve been the monster that fought with the chort. It’s injured, weak from its territorial disputes. It needs an easy meal. And it can sense Geralt is injured.

Geralt barely has time to think as he leads it away from the house, down steep paths and through the thick forest. It’s keeping up, deceptively fast thanks to its powerful leg muscles. He has no idea which direction Ameer went – he simply hopes that he’s leading it away, not towards him.

As Roach runs, the pain in Geralt’s side is getting worse and worse. His vision starts to blur, and he struggles to control his steed.

Shit. He feels himself slipping from the saddle. 

In a split decision, Geralt pulls hard on the reins, slowing Roach to an abrupt halt. Just in time. The world spins, and he falls off the mare.

He hits the ground, hard. The wind is knocked out of him, and the pain in his side is so bad that his vision goes dark. It’s a struggle to stay conscious.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Roach run away. Behind him, the roar of the fiend is getting louder.

Geralt takes a deep breath, and sits up as fast as he can. “Fuck!” He feels sick from pain. He grabs onto a tree trunk and heaves himself to his feet. The sheer effort it takes almost makes him throw up.

But there’s no time to delay. Sweat pouring down his face, he begins to stagger through the forest, moving from tree to tree for support. At least the forest should slow the fiend down somewhat, but his own pace is infuriatingly slow. His head is throbbing, and he can barely see 3 feet in front of him. The fear of tripping up is at the forefront of his mind. He knows that if he does, he won’t have the strength to get back up, and it’ll be over.

Soon, the trees get sparser. He’s quickly losing energy. He staggers into a clearing, breathing heavily, not daring to slow. After a few steps he almost stumbles, and just manages to right himself.

How far is he from civilisation? Is he back on the path? Is Roach nearby?

A wall of rock faces him.

Now, Geralt stops. It’s 50 feet high. Far too steep to climb up. And it's vast, stretching far on either side. Who knows how long it goes on for? Even if he finds a section of rock that’s less steep, there’s no way he’d have the energy to climb it, not in this state.

Is this it? Is he going to die?

No. Not yet.

He frantically looks around for something, anything. Somewhere to run? Somewhere to hide?

There. At the bottom of the rock face. Bush and brambles grow over the rock, but he can see a hollow or crevice behind them. Maybe it will be big enough to fit in?

The fiend bursts through the undergrowth, much faster than Geralt expected. Instinctively, he starts running – and feels the cool chill of the monster’s claws slicing the air a few inches away from his back. It’s too close, he won’t reach the hollow in time –

In one last attempt, he grabs his last Grapeshot and hurls it at the beast. Even with his blurry vision and impaired aim, it’s difficult to miss such a big target. The bomb hits the beast on its flank near its wound – the explosion doesn’t cause much damage, but it’s enough to slow it, make it roar in pain. Geralt runs towards the hollow, ignoring the piercing thorns of the brambles as he rips the vegetation away. The hollow is smaller than he thought it’d be; he has to get on his knees and crawl in. Further into the rock face, the hollow becomes higher and wider, and he’s able to sit up, shifting himself away from the entrance. Just in time. The fiend thuds against the rock face, sending shivers through the rock. Spiders drop from the hollow ceiling onto his armour. Dust and small pebbles settle onto his hair.

The fiend howls angrily, trying to stick its ugly head into the entrance.

With shaking hands, Geralt unsheathes his silver sword. He still has some relic oil left from the chort contract – carefully, his coats his blade with the liquid.

The fiend paces the entrance to the rock face. Once more, it tries to stick its head in.

Now. Geralt plunges his sword into the monster’s head.

The monster squeals in rage, and withdraws his head. The strike caught it in the eye, but Geralt didn’t have the strength to make the blow fatal.

Now, Geralt drops his blade. He can’t even hold it anymore. He’s too weak.

Outside, he hears the fiend grunting, and then the noise of scrabbling claws. It’s trying to open up the hollow, he realises. Like him, it can’t afford to lose. It’s injured, it’s wasted too much energy on this hunt to stop without getting the food it needs.

Geralt rests his head against the hollow wall. The truth is heavy, numb. The fiend will eventually make the hollow wide enough to grab him. He physically can’t fight anymore. He’s going to die, alone, in this tiny crack in the rock with only spiders to witness his passing.

He can’t believe it. He’s so angry. He’s survived all sorts of horrors: the Wild Hunt, higher vampires, battles, devilish monstrosities of all types. And now he’s going to die. All because he was too nervous to see his daughter. That’s the real reason he delayed, took pointless detours. He never doubted Ciri could take care of herself. All the years of running and fighting the Wild Hunt certainly proved that.

But now she was free to do as she pleased, whenever she pleased. She could grow and blossom as a person without the weight of prophecies hanging over her. She could finally be whoever she wanted to be.

The fiend continues digging into the rock face, snarling with anticipation.

But maybe the person she’d come to be wouldn’t need him anymore. She was always so stubborn, striving for independence and a need to prove herself. Her sudden departure from him while he trained her on the ways of the path already proved to him that she found being in his shadow too stifling. Maybe she had grown so fond of her ever-changing and solitary lifestyle, she didn’t want Geralt in it anymore.

It was stupid. He knew that. So stupid, he couldn’t even bring himself to tell Yen. But still, it weighed on his mind. So instead of going straight to Kaer Trolde with his lover, he delayed and roamed the Skellige wilderness, hoping the time would ease his worries and give him the courage to go.

And now he’s going to die.

The fiend is getting closer now. Soon, it will be able to grab him by the foot and drag him to a painful death.

“…Ciri. Yen.” He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.” Let those be his last words.

At the hollow entrance, the fiend screams. He wishes it would shut up, at least let him pass with his hearing intact.

Wait…that sounded different.

Geralt opens his eyes. The fiend isn’t at the entrance anymore. Instead, he can just hear roaring – from two sets of monsters.

Carefully, he leans forwards, trying to get a better look. Out in the clearing, the black and white fiend is cowering and snarling. A much, much bigger one stands over it, roaring continuously, it’s thick red fur rippling in the wind.

He’s never seen a fiend that big before. Geralt doesn’t much believe in gods, but he prays to any out there that might be listening, that the monstrosity doesn’t notice him.

The first fiend is clearly outmatched. With one last snarl, it darts out from under the larger fiend’s reach and flees into the forest, almost knocking down trees in its haste.

The huge fiend stands still, almost unnaturally still. It flickers from his vision – and vanishes.

“What the…” He’s simply too relieved to try and figure out what’s going on.

Footsteps sound outside the hollow, autumn leaves crunching under foot. At the entrance to the hollow, he sees dusty shoes stolen from an abandoned house.

“It is all fine now.” Ameer calls softly. “The monster is gone.”

“…How?”

Ameer holds out his hand and helps Geralt out of the hollow. Instantly, Geralt almost falls, and Ameer has to hold him upright. His face is grave with concern.

“…How…What…”

“You must rest.”

“Your eyes…” Bright green eyes. They remind him of something. Bright glowing eyes, watching him intensely in a swamp. The pupils are slit. Like his own.

That fiend – it wasn’t real. It was an illusion. A very powerful illusion that even his medallion couldn’t pick up on.

And the jarl called him fox face.

“You’re…You’re an aguara?” Fox Mothers. Vulpesses. Antherions. Shape shifters. But this one is male. Or is that an illusion, too?

“Please sit.” Ameer sounds genuinely concerned. “You are very sick.”

Instead of arguing, Geralt turns and throws up. His head is burning. The pain is becoming more and more intense. It’s going to take him over soon, he realises, completely incapacitate him.

Aguaras are tricksters. Masters of illusion. Powerful creatures. The one occasion in which he ran into an angry Fox Mother, he almost died, and many others did. But this one just saved him. He has no other option but to entrust his life to Ameer.

“Yen…” he gasps, spitting the last of the vileness from his mouth as Ameer holds back his hair. “Ciri…Kaer Trolde…find them…” the pain is getting stronger now, filling him with panic he rarely feels.

“I will. I promise I will find them, and I will take care of you.” Ameer forces him to lay on the ground, Geralt’s head resting on his lap. There are herbs in his hand. “This will force you to sleep. To hide from the pain until I can heal you.”

“Do it.” He can’t take the pain anymore.

Ameer carefully pours the herbs into his mouth. They’re bitter as potions, but he swallows them anyway.

Instantly, he feels groggy. The pain is still there, but it’s becoming more distant. Ameer is smoothing back his hair from his head, speaking in a language he doesn’t recognise but is soothing all the same.

At that moment, Geralt is suddenly aware of two truths. One reassures him, and the other fills him with dread.

This aguara will not hurt him. Ameer will return the good deed given unto him, and look after Geralt as best as he can.

The second is more worrying. Geralt realises what is truly going on. The reason for this whole mess. The poison. The real culprit behind the attempt on his life.

Before the herbs send him to sleep, he thinks,

_Oh, shit._


	3. Missing Witcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ameer is a Vulpess/Fox Mother/Aguara, which come from the comic Fox Children (written by Paul Tobin) which is based off a chapter from Season of Storms :)

_“What time of year is the best for visiting Ard Skellig? Any time. To whom is such a sojourn recommended? To anyone who seeks adventure, craves miraculous views and adores charming villages. These last Ard Skellig has in spades: it is the most densely-inhabited isle in the archipelago, though this does not mean it lacks virgin forests or untrammeled landscapes. Particularly worthy of a visit are the villages of Rannvaig, Arinbjorn and, last but not least, Holmstein, one of the most important ports in all the Isles.” – The Lonesome World Guide to Ard Skellig_

Yennefer is getting worried.

It’s been three days since she arrived at Kaer Trolde’s harbour, south of the bridge – alone, without her partner. Though she would never admit it, she’s not exactly thrilled to be back in Skellige. The people here don’t like her, it’s no secret. They call her controlling, manipulative, scornful in the face of tradition – usually behind her back, and occasionally to her face.

But none of that matters, because she’s here with Ciri.

The two met at the cross roads just outside the harbour gates, Ciri having come from the east. They embraced tightly, something Yennefer never tires of. She fussed over her daughter, checking for scars and scrapes, pestering her with incessant questions – have folk been treating her fairly? Has she run into any trouble?

“I’m fine, Yen. You know me.” She was grinning, though. They embraced again. It must have only been nine months since they last met. It feels like an eon.

“Where’s Geralt?” Ciri looked around. “Not already off getting drunk with the locals, is he?”

“No, he had…business to attend to. But he’ll be with us as soon as he can.”

Ciri accepts this readily, thank goodness. But Yennefer can’t help but feel ever so slightly frustrated.

When Geralt had announced he wanted to roam Ard Skellig for a short while before seeing Ciri, Yennefer had been suspicious. She asked why he didn’t just wait until they caught up with Ciri and then the two could go on together; Ciri would certainly enjoy that. But he insisted on going alone.

Yennefer doesn’t use her mind reading powers on Geralt anymore – over time, her conscience has told her it’s dishonest and unfair in a relationship – but she doesn’t need to read any minds to understand what’s really going on. Geralt is nervous about seeing Ciri. He’s probably gotten it into his head that Ciri might have decided she doesn’t want him in her life anymore over the time they’ve been apart and the changes she might’ve been through. Completely ridiculous and utterly unfounded, but he fears it all the same.

Any other time, she might have dragged it out of him, told him that his fears were unwarranted and to not even think about running off when they’re supposed to be having a family reunion, for heaven’s sake. But this time, she held off. Geralt can be too stubborn for reassurances at times, and she didn’t want their first meeting with Ciri after a year to be overshadowed by an argument. So, she let him go. Told him not to take too long. When he came back, he could see for himself that his worries were stupid, and that nothing had changed.

All the same, a part of her wishes that he would tell her openly. His stubbornness and need for perceived masculinity through suppressing his emotions can be ever so frustrating at times.

Still, she missed him as she sat with her daughter, exchanging stories next to a hearth and over drinks in the inn she once stayed at with Geralt. Ciri regaled Yennefer with stories of her time on the path: monsters she faced, people she saved, both kind and unsavoury individuals alike. She spoke in excitement of one of her recent kills as a witcheress, a garkain, and gave Yennefer the play by play of how she defeated such a monstrosity.

“First, I lured it to the open, where it couldn’t hide, but also couldn’t attack anyone.”

“Very smart.”

“When it came to fighting though, it was bloody strong! For a moment – don’t tell anyone this – I was worried I’d bitten off more than I could chew.”

“Really?” Yennefer smiled. “Because I know for certain that my daughter could easily best some measly garkain. But how did you do it, then?”

“I took some black blood. I pretended to mess up, let it get a bit of blood from me.” She grinned. “After that, it was easy. Once it was weakened from the black blood, it wasn’t so strong, and I was faster. Eventually managed to slay it.”

By comparison, Yennefer’s stories seemed rather dull – her retirement from politics, moving down to Corvo Bianco in Toussaint to live with Geralt in his newly acquired vineyard. Boring, but that’s what Yennefer wanted, and Ciri listened attentively anyway, as if enraptured by every word.

Inevitably, conversation moved to Geralt – or rather, the lack of his presence.

“What sort of ‘business’ is he attending to, then?”

“A monster hunt, I believe.” In truth, that was a lie. Yennefer wasn’t even sure what Geralt was planning to do on his detour.

“Oh. Well, it’ll make for a good story.” Ciri said it cheerily, but Yennefer had known her long enough to recognise the disappointment hidden on her face, in her voice. She probably would’ve liked to go with him, for old time’s sake. God damnit, Geralt.

“Well, he’ll be back soon enough. In the meantime, you deserve a rest.”

After that, they chatted some more, deep into the evening and early morning. Despite everything, Yennefer enjoyed herself. They could talk about things that Ciri would’ve felt a little…uncomfortable disclosing to Geralt. Romantic encounters and other such things. Besides, it was nice to have some well needed mother-daughter time.

And in regard to Geralt, Yennefer knew his loneliness and excitement to see Ciri would eventually overcome his doubts and he’d come back to Kaer Trolde, no doubt with some ugly monster head fastened to his saddle. By her estimation, he’d be back by the next evening – at the very latest, early morning the day after that.

It’s been three days now.

Yennefer stands outside the gates of the harbour, facing the winding path that leads down to cross roads. Her breath is coming out in condensation, snow settling in her thick hair. Next to her, the horse she’s borrowing – a grey mare – shakes its head, sending the ice that had settled on its mane into her face. She barely notices.

He should’ve been back by now. Even with his tendencies to get involved in all manner of disputes, he should have returned. The fact that he isn’t here must mean something bad has happened.

Once, she wouldn’t have even bothered entertaining such thoughts. That was before he was killed with a pitchfork. That was before the Wild Hunt invaded, killing Vesemir – a Witcher with far more experience than him.

But the main problem isn’t just what might’ve happened, but where. He said he would stay on Ard Skellig, but what if he was enticed by some monster problem on Spikeroog, or Undvik? Even if he stayed on the main isle, it’s still by far the biggest. He could be on top of a bloody mountain for all she knows.

No. One step at a time.

She’ll head south, checking the local villages as she travels. That’s where he said he’d be going. If nothing turns up, then she’ll head east and upwards, do a loop of the island, however long that will take. After that, she’ll check the ports and ask if anyone saw him leave Ard Skellig.

“Hope you’re not planning to leave by yourself.”

She turns to see Ciri, donned in her Skellige gear, leading her own horse over to the gate. “You think something bad has happened, don’t you?”

Yennefer looks away. “…I think it would be foolish not to be…cautious. But I didn’t want you to worry.”

“No need – I’m worried already. And I’m coming with you.”

That resolute stare. Yennefer almost smiles. That stubbornness, for better or for worse. A trait she inherited from both Geralt and herself.

“Let’s go, then.” She mounts her horse. Ciri’s stubbornness aside, she’ll be useful in the search. The locals certainly like her a lot more than they like Yennefer; they’ll be more open and forthcoming with information if she’s the one asking the questions.

“Which way we heading first?” Ciri mounts her own steed and brings it up alongside Yennefer.

“South. That’s where he said he was heading.”

“South? Let’s stop at Raanvaig then.” Ciri suggests.

“Why do you say that?”

“I slew a group of sirens there, a few months ago. The herbalist who lives there, Bjarni, I know him. He took over after the last herbalist, Jonna, died of an illness. And he’s a huge gossip. He might have an idea about where Geralt could be.”

“We’ll start there, then.”

The town of Raanvaig bustles with activity as the fishermen prepare for the cold winter ahead. Boats rock out on the waves, while the earlier catches hang and dry on wooden frames. All around the rocky beach, the ground is littered with fish scales that shine silver in the light.

In fact, the fishermen are so busy, that none pay any attention to Yennefer and Ciri as they arrive and dismount their horses. Ciri heads confidently to one of the stone huts, past running children and women washing clothes in tubs of water. Yennefer can’t help but notice that the women quickly gather up their children, watching her with scornful gazes, muttering unpleasant words to each other. However, Yennefer holds her head up high and walks confidently. She refuses to let it bother her.

“Bjarni!” Ciri calls out.

In front of the stone hut a man sits, sorting through herbs and flowers. At the sound of Ciri’s voice, he looks up and grins. His face is greyed and bearded, creased and weathered from the constant onslaught of wind and brine, but there’s a somewhat youthful spark in his eyes.

“Ciri!” He stands up and embraces her. “Welcome!”

“It’s good to see you again, Bjarni. Having any more problems with sirens?”

“Not a single one, thanks to you. You here to have a ponder at my herb collection? I’m more than ready to give you a discount.”

“Sadly, I’m here on more pressing matters. I’m looking for a witcher called Geralt.”

“Geralt? Hm.” He scratches his head. “We’ve not seen any witcher come through here. Though, I believe that a witcher was in Fayrlund recently, just south of us. Was interested in a contract of some sort, I believe.”

Fayrlund. That’s where they’ll be headed next.

“He’s not in Fayrlund.”

Yennefer turns to see another old man with a thick beard and wearing red listening in. Unlike the equally old herbalist, he looks much…sadder.

“How d’you know that, Odhen?” Bjorni asks.

“Geralt, you say? White hair, a wolf medallion round his neck?”

This time, Yennefer steps forwards quickly. “That’s him. Have you seen him?”

However, the man shakes his head. “Not for four years. When we met, he took on a contract to find me sonny Olve.” He stares down at his hands. “…It was too late, but he avenged him. Killed the beast that slaughtered him.” Even now, the grief is eating him up. He looks at Yennefer. “I heard he was in Farylund and picked up a contract. A big monster was eating goats near jarl Carrik’s residence.”

“Jarl Carrik?” Bjarni asks, surprised. “As in, the jarl who was murdered a few days past?”

“Aye, the very same. His house burnt down, too. If you want to find the Witcher, you should go there. The castle is east of Fayrlund. They might have seen him.”

Ciri and Yennefer exchange a worried glance. A murdered jarl? What happened?

“We must go.” Yennefer grabs Ciri’s arm and begins pulling her towards the horses. Ciri looks over her shoulder and calls out,

“Thank you, Odhen. And thank you, Bjarni.”

The herbalist shouts back. “Good luck, Ciri!”

-

“You don’t think it was Geralt, do you?”

They’ve both been galloping since their conversation with the herbalist and the grieving father, trying to reach the residence of jarl Carrik as fast as they can. If either Yennefer or Ciri knew the exact location they could teleport there by portal or Ciri’s elder blood, but unfortunately they’ll have to ride by horseback, which feels painfully slow by comparison. Now, though, they’re heading up a steep path in single file, and have slowed to a trot – Yennefer at the front, Ciri behind her.

In response to Ciri’s questions, Yennefer signs. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t attack without provocation. But you know what men in Skellige are like, always spoiling for a fight. Things could have escalated.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s been delayed.” Ciri says after a moment of hesitation. “Maybe the contract went south, he killed the jarl in self defence, and he’s been laying low ever since.”

It certainly is a more pleasant alternative to the idea of Geralt being hurt, or dead, but Yennefer doesn’t let herself be too swayed by it. “Perhaps. We’ll find out more when we arrive at the jarl’s residence. Do you know much about jarl Carrik?”

“Not really, no. Maybe we should’ve asked more.”

With no warning, Yennefer’s horse stops. It neighs and shakes its head anxiously. Yennefer tries to make it move forwards, but it won’t budge. Instead it starts to turn around, trying to go back down the slope.

“What’s going on?” Ciri calls out.

“I don’t know.” Does it sense danger?

Ciri’s horse stops abruptly too. She kicks the stirrups, but it simply neighs loudly, eyes bulging in fear.

“Woah, something’s definitely wrong.” Ciri quickly dismounts her horse before it bucks her off. Yennefer hastily does the same.

“There must be something dangerous nearby.” Ciri unsheathes her silver sword. “We’ll have to be careful.”

Yennefer lets Ciri take the lead. Her daughter has more than proved herself capable of taking down monsters and powerful foes. But she readies a lightning spell anyway. No harm in some back up.

Together, they climb up the rest of the path, moving slowly and quietly. Ciri moves with the same grace and focus as Geralt – the mark of a true witcher. As soon as they reach the top, Ciri momentarily freezes, then grabs Yennefer and drags her down into the bushes.

“Stay still.” She whispers. She looks incredibly nervous.

Cautiously, Yennefer looks out through the bushes. A huge monster is sitting only 20 feet away from them. Quadrupedal. Its face is almost goat-like, but she can see huge fangs.

“A fiend.” Ciri breathes, confirming Yennefer’s realisation. “Never fought one of those before. Don’t think it’s seen us.”

Yennefer purses her lips, and peers through the bushes at the giant beast. It’s looking away from them, not at the bushes – it didn’t hear or see them. That’s one relief. She can’t see Geralt’s body lying anywhere in the near vicinity. Another relief.

But there’s something unusual about it, Yennefer realises. She stares at it, hard. What’s wrong about this fiend?

“If we work together,” Ciri is whispering, “we’ll be able to take it down. But we’ll have to be careful not to –”

“Wait.” Yennefer frowns. “It’s not moving.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it doesn’t even look as if it’s breathing.”

Ciri peers through the bushes in surprise. “You’re right.”

The more Yennefer observes the monster, the more certain she becomes. “It’s an illusion.”

“An illusion?” Ciri looks around. “I don’t see anyone here, though.”

“And it’s not Geralt. He can’t perform such magic.” Yennefer stands up and steps out of the bushes. Even with her obvious movement, the supposed fiend doesn’t move.

So, it’s simply there to scare off people, she realises. Having it in a stationary state is easier to maintain – someone must have cast the illusion and then moved on.

But who? Why? She walks without fear past the fiend, turning and beckoning Ciri to follow her.

“This is powerful magic. Whoever cast it wanted to deter people from coming this way.”

Ciri regards the illusion, impressed. “You don’t think this has something to do with Geralt?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. It could just be someone trying to guard their valuables from thieves. But it would be foolish to rule anything out so early.”

Together, they continue past the illusion, through fields of brown heather as snow continues to fall. The grass and shrubs are covered in frost, and crackle under her boots as they tread through the moorland. A ptarmigan shoots out from the undergrowth, its brown feathers interspersed with growing white feathers, readying it for the winter months. Up ahead, a fox watches them with curious eyes.

As they search, it’s a struggle not to let her thoughts run away with her. So many things could have happened. Did he kill the jarl, then get killed by jarl’s angry warriors? Or was it someone else who killed the jarl, and didn’t want to leave any witnesses – Geralt included? It might even have nothing to do with the jarl. Maybe he was killed by the monster in the contract, or some other monstrosity. He could have simply been thrown by Roach, broken his leg, freezing to death somewhere in the wilderness.

Her thoughts are interrupted when the fox steps onto the path in front of them. It looks at them for a moment, then cries out loudly. It runs away, stops after a few metres, then turns back to face them and cries out again.

“What’s it doing?” Ciri asks, confused.

“…Foxes here are white or brown, aren’t they? Depending on the season.” Yennefer asks. This one is a sandy colour.

“Now that you mention it, yes. I’ve seen a few red ones too, but only at the very south of the island. Never seen a sandy one like that before.”

And this one has slightly larger ears than the norm. Yennefer knows enough about heat transfer that foxes living in the north need to have small ears, to conserve heat. The foxes that live in the deserts of places like Ofier need to have larger ears.

Ofier…

“No. It can’t be.” She breathes.

“Yen? What do you mean?”

The fox begins to run, surprisingly fast. Yennefer chases after it.

Surely it couldn’t be…Not here, all the way in Skellige, many miles from Ofier…

But that illusion – it has to be.

At last, they reach a clearing. Up ahead is what looks like an old barn, though the roof has long since caved in. What is left is coated in a dusting of snow, while icicles hang around the edges.

“Yennefer!” Ciri finally catches up with her, out of breath. “Why did you start running?”

“The fox – where did it go? Did you see it?”

Ciri isn’t listening, though. She stares at the barn, and points. “Who’s that?”

Standing at the entrance of the barn is an elven man, one from Ofier. He’s wearing a blood-stained cloak, wrapped around dirty clothes. His eyes are unnaturally green. The hood of the cloak is up, but Yennefer knows what she would see if it were down.

He’s staring at her, almost in disbelief. When he speaks up, his voice is quieter and more uncertain than she’s ever heard it before.

“Yennefer?”

“Ameer!” She runs forwards and embraces him. He hesitates for a moment, then hugs her back tightly. He feels thin and frail.

“What are you doing here?” She examines his face. His temple is bruised, an old cut scabbing over. There are dark shadows under his eyes. He looks tired. “Why are you so far from Ofier?”

Ameer looks past her at Ciri, who is standing in confusion and awkwardness. “Is that…Ciri?”

“You know me?” Ciri asks. Yennefer is puzzled, too. She and Ameer met before Ciri had even been born.

“Geralt. He is sick.” His voice is filled with distress. “I do not know what is wrong with him.”

Dread fills Yennefer. Drowns her, suffocates her.

Immediately, she runs past Ameer and into the barn, almost tripping in her urgency.

There he is.

He’s lying in the old straw, covered in a dirty blanket. Unconscious. His face is pale, etched with pain.

“Oh God!” She kneels down beside him and shakes him. “Geralt!” He doesn’t stir. She feels his forehead – it’s hot to touch, sweaty.

Ciri is at her side, her own face pale with panic. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I made him sleep.” Ameer kneels down beside them. “He was in too much pain.”

“What’s wrong? Is he injured?”

“Poisoned.” Carefully, he removes the blanket. Yennefer almost recoils. There’s a wound at his side. It’s turned black, and it stinks of something vile.

“Oh God…” His hands are cold, but she holds them anyway. Tears are forming in her eyes, and she angrily blinks them away.

“What poison is it? How did it enter his body – orally? Through the blood?” She interrogates him, in some desperate attempt to remain pragmatic.

“Not a poison I know. Through blood, from a dagger wound.”

How did this happen? _Why _did this happen? Oh, Geralt. What has he gotten himself into?

“I cannot heal him, Yennefer. I do not know what to do.”

“We’ll help.” Ciri says quickly. “We’ll bring him back to Kaer Trolde. Figure out what’s wrong with him. Cure him.” She’s saying it for her own benefit more than anything else. “Right, Yen?”

Yennefer doesn’t look at her daughter. Her mouth feels dry. For the first time in her life, she’s at a loss. She doesn’t know what to do. If Ameer can’t stop the poison...

The terrible, horrible possibility that Geralt may die is quickly becoming a reality. And she doesn’t know what to do.

“Yen?”

Ciri’s voice snaps her back to the presence.

“…Ciri, I need you to teleport Geralt back to Kaer Trolde, before he dies of exposure regardless of the poison.” She can’t fall apart now. It won’t do any good to start panicking. Geralt is still alive. There has to be something she can do, anything. And she won’t stop trying until he’s stone cold dead. Besides, Ciri needs her to stay strong. 

“Get help. Demand the best doctors and healers. Use your friendship with Hjalmar if you need to.” 

Ciri nods. Yennefer senses she’s trying to fight back tears herself, put on a brave face. She embraces her daughter quickly and tightly. Ciri then kneels down beside Geralt, holding his hands. There’s a flash of turquoise – and they’re gone.

Now she addresses Ameer. “I’ll bring us back to a Kaer Trolde by portal. When we get there, I need you to help me halt the progression of the poison, give us some time to figure out what we’re up against. And you need to tell me everything that happened. Leave out no details.”

Ameer simply nods. Something terrible has happened to him, clearly. He’s seems so unsure of himself, timid and fragile.

To the side, she sees Roach, who is busy browsing the hay, her reins tied to a fallen beam. Attached to her saddle by rope is some sort of wooden sled, hastily tied together. That must be how Ameer has been moving Geralt’s unconscious body around.

“We’ll have to get someone else to come back for the horses.” Somehow, she knows Geralt would be angry if Yennefer left something happen to the mare. But right now, it’s the least of her priorities.

Quickly, she opens up a portal, the noise and light spooking Roach slightly. She automatically waits to hear the complaint – _I hate portals, can’t we travel some other way?_

She might never hear that again.

_We’ll cure him, _she thinks to herself. _We have to. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. _

She tries to ignore the voice telling her that he won’t.


	4. Conspiracies and Companions

_“Skellige the political entity encompasses the archipelago of the same name, composed of twenty individual isles. The largest of them are Ard Skellig, An Skellig, Undvik, Faroe, Spikeroog and Hindarsfjall. Originally these isles were inhabited by independent clans, but these later united to face the growing threat from barbarians as well as the rising powers of the Continent. Skellige then became an elective monarchy, ruled by a king chosen from among the jarls (clan chieftains).” – Skellige: It’s History and Geography_

The inhabitants of Fayrlund are shocked when their normal morning routine is interrupted by their queen, Cerys, arriving at their village.

It all feels rather strange as they enter the village on horseback with an escort of soldiers following them, Ciri thinks, as all the villagers stare with wide eyes at them. Though their looks are more of admiration than of fear, which is good.

The entourage of horses gathers in the main square of the village. There, an older man waits for Cerys – probably one of the few elders in the village. Over a year ago, while Geralt was sorting out a leshen that had begun killing hunters, the young men of the village rose up and slaughtered the elders over disputes of tradition and progress. Ciri is sure that both sides probably had valid points in the argument, but the fact the young men had been so merciless has always made her wary of being in this village.

“Our Queen.” The man bows low, despite his age. “Workers in the field alerted me of your presence. What brings you to our village?”

Cerys dismounts her horse. Her black fur collar is flecked with snow, and her metal shoulder plates are wet from frost and condensation. Her very presence demands the attention of everyone around her, yet it is not her crown that she displays the most proudly, but the red scarf across her chest that bears the colours of her clan. “I’m here to investigate the incident that occurred at jarl Carrik’s residence, some seven days ago.”

A whole week has passed since they found Geralt poisoned in the wilderness. A whole week of worrying, of frantic investigations that have gone nowhere. In Ciri’s point of view, that’s far too long. The whole of Ard Skellig should be helping to cure him.

But, no matter how much Ciri thinks that, there wasn’t much she could do to hurry Cerys. She was away on the isle of Faroe the day they found Geralt, undergoing intense talks with the citizens of Faroe and Clan Dimun. It had been discovered that Faroe was still operating a secret slave trade with the continent, despite Cerys’s laws against it. When the operation was uncovered, Clan Dimun almost imploded, the different members all too eager to blame each other in order to escape justice.

Regardless, Ciri was still impatient. She had been unsuccessfully trying to interrogate the remainders of jarl Carrik’s men. But all she got were mistrustful stares, mutters and points, the word ‘foreigner’ repeated over and over again. No one would tell her anything. She almost teleported over to Faroe herself, to demand that Cerys help her in the investigation. Only Yennefer’s calm words stopped her.

“Ciri, I know you’re frustrated. But this is important.” She had told her with calmness that Ciri knew was forced, no matter how convincing it was. “But the issues in Faroe are important, too. After all, jarl Carrik might have interacted with those slavers. They might know something about his plans, or about the poison.”

Ciri had reluctantly agreed with Yennefer, though not just because of the possible information to be gained. For then she saw Ameer – one of Yennefer’s old friends, a quiet and nervous elf who doesn’t speak to her much. When she was faced with those terrible effects of slavery, she felt guilty about her impatience to hurry Cerys.

That doesn’t mean she isn’t relieved when Cerys finally returns a week later, though unfortunately with no new leads of Geralt's poisoning from Faroe. While Hjalmar is more experienced with warfare, Cerys is smarter and shrewd. Not only is she good at figuring things out, she knows how to handle matters diplomatically, gauge the path of least resistance to find out and get what she needs as soon as possible. And right now, time is of the essence.

“When the incident came to my attention, I sought to understand what had really happened. And in order to fully understand, I need to speak to witnesses. I was told that those who worked for jarl Carrik came to this village.”

“Not all of them, Queen Cerys.” The man says, almost sheepishly. “Many of his warriors never came here. His steward is gone, too. They perished in the fire. But many of the farm hands, the cleaners, are here.”

This is true; Hjalmar has been searching the burnt down castle for any survivors, though all they’ve found so far are charred and unidentifiable corpses.

“I wish to speak with these farmhands.”

“I shall fetch them at once.”

The man returns with ten villagers: mainly young farmhands with calloused hands, but a few family members among them: wives, some young children, a grandma.

“I have a witness who tells me that jarl Carrik attempted to kill the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Is this true?”

They look among themselves, uncertain.

“…We’re not to know such things. The jarl never told us of any such plan.” A farmhand speaks up.

“A man would’ve come to the castle. White hair, orange eyes.” Ciri tells them.

“The man from the continent with eyes like a cat? That be him. And he came to the castle, and slaughtered our lord without a second thought! Set fire to the hall and burnt it to the ground!”

The farmhands all shout in anger and agreement. Ciri finds herself getting angry

“Shut it! Geralt wouldn’t do that – he didn’t! We have a witness!”

“Ciri.” Cerys holds up her hand, motioning for her to be quiet, then walks forwards. “It’s true: we have a witness. One who tells me that it was the jarl who struck first. He also told me that the fire started from a bomb of sorts, but the flames weren’t so big as to fell the whole castle. So I want to know, what happened?”

“We’ve told you what happened! Whoever your witness is, they’re lying!”

“The same witness also tells me that slavery was practised here. An accusation I find most serious. All those who hid this face dishonouring all their family for the rest of their lives. Unless they tell me what really happened.”

Now, the farmhands remain silent. But the old woman steps forwards.

“Aye, ‘tis true.” She says.

“Granny! What’re you doing? Do you want to bring shame to the jarl who housed us when our home was destroyed by a monster?” The farmhand hisses.

“Jarl Carrik is the dishonourable one.” His grandma replies in a hardy voice. “You only revered jarl Carrik’s presence because he plied you with drink and wenches to keep you silent. When the End Times came, it was Crach an Craite who laid down his life to protect us. Your precious jarl cowered in fear. I will save my respect for those who deserve it.”

She now turns to Cerys. “Like you say, my Queen. The fire started small. But the drunk fools in the hall tried to put it out with drink. It fed the flames till they reached the ceiling beams. Then it was all over.”

Ciri feels a wave of triumph. She knew that Geralt wouldn’t have been so careless.

“And what of the witcher?”

“I saw him.“ One of the women speaks up this time. “My husband – he was one of the beast’s victims. He asked me questions about the monster. I saw him again, the monster head in the bag. He spoke to the steward – Arvid. Arvid brought him into the hall. After that, the castle set on fire.”

A murmur of discussion runs through the crowd of people.

“Why did jarl Carrik seek violence against the witcher?”

This time, no answer from any of them. But one of the farmhands, the one who spoke against his grandma, is looking incredibly nervous.

With no warning, he bolts, pushing people aside, knocking them to the ground in his frantic haste.

But he doesn’t get far. All Ciri has to do is teleport, and she’s right next to him. She tackles him to the ground.

“Let me go, bitch!”

“Why’d you run, huh?” She holds her sword to his throat. “Let me tell you, I’m not in the mood for games. So I’d advise you not to piss me off anymore right now.”

“Your threats don’t scare me, foreigner.”

“Well, then.” Ciri looks over her shoulder to see Cerys standing behind her. “If you wish to maintain the honour of all your blood, I’d suggest you co-operate. I’m giving you this last chance.”

The farm worker hesitates, gritting his teeth. Finally, he speaks.

“…The jarl opposed the new queen. Birna had promised him riches, and you had her executed. Now, our mighty isle is weak and filled with cowards, not warriors. He wanted to kill those who helped her gain power. Like the witcher. His steward Arvid helped arrange it. He met with a man from the continent, all secret like. The foreign man gave him a poison, told him to put it on a dagger.”

“Where’s the foreign man now?” Ciri demands.

“I don’t know. They arranged to meet in secret after the deed was done. The steward was to get him to the docks and off the isle without raising suspicion. But Arvid perished in the fire, so I don’t know what happened.”

Ciri still doesn’t remove the sword. “The man – what did he look like?”

“I don’t know! I never saw him! He had an ugly scar on his forehead, is all I heard!”

That’s enough for Ciri. She makes to release the man, but Cerys holds out her hand, stopping her.

“Why’d you try to hide the plot? The witcher is from the continent, yet you took great lengths to hide the jarl’s involvement in his death. Why?”

The man closes his eyes. “…The jarl was planning to target you next.”

A gasp arises from the crowd of onlookers. Cerys turns away. She looks disappointed, but not surprised.

“…Close all the ports.” She addresses one of her soldiers. “Make sure no one leaves, not even a fishing boat. And I want everyone searching for this foreigner, and any of jarl Carrik’s men. This just became a matter of treason.” She looks down at the farmhand. “And arrest this man.”

“Fuck you, Cerys! Birna would have made us wealthy beyond belief! And Carrik would’ve made Skellige the mighty kingdom it was again!” The farmhand shouts as the soldiers drag him away. “You rotten bitch! They’ll get you!”

Cerys ignores him, unaffected by his insults and threats. However, the rest of the villagers look increasingly worried by his words and the scene going on in front of them. They look scared of Ciri, too. They did just see her teleport, after all, and hold a sword to an unarmed man’s throat.

As her eyes scan the crowd, Ciri spots a family – a mother, a father, a young girl. Next to the girl sits a dog, a border collie. Lucky?

She walks over to the girl. “Are you Sorcha?”

The girl, still frightened by the violence that has gone on in front of her, clings to her mother’s leg.

“Who be asking?” Her father steps forwards, trying to look as intimidating as he can.

Ciri reaches into her bag, and brings out the doll she found on Geralt after she brought him to Kaer Trolde. At first, she had no idea why he was carrying it, until Ameer gave her a journal written by the girl.

“I think Geralt wanted to return it.” Was the sole thing he said.

Upon seeing the doll, the young girl instantly runs forwards, jumping up and down and holding out her hands. “Serafina!”

Ciri smiles, and passes it to her. “Don’t lose her this time, all right?”

“I won’t!” The girl returns happily to her parents, who fuss over her. Her father lifts her up in his arms. Now, Ciri turns away, feeling a lump on her throat. Right now, considering what dire straits Geralt is in…

“Come, Ciri.” Cerys calls her, mounting her horse. “You need to search for this foreign man. He might have the cure for Geralt. And I,” she frowns, “I need to know more about this plot. Jarl Carrik and Arvid may be dead, but the plot might still be in action.” She speaks more quietly, more as a note to herself. “Perhaps I should look more into the late Birna’s notes and plans. I might find something of use there.”

That’s right. Ciri composes herself. They have a lead now. They’ll find the foreign man, and force him to tell them how to cure the poison. Then Geralt will be fine.

He has to be.

-

Another failure.

Yennefer curses, pacing back and forth in the room they’ve claimed as a medical bay. Geralt lies on a bed, still unconscious from Ameer‘s herbal remedy. He no longer looks at deaths door like he did out in the moorlands, thanks to no small part of being in more sterile, warmer conditions. But they’ve had very little luck in identifying the poison over the past week.

The doctors were of no use, though that didn’t much surprise Yennefer. So, she contacted Ermion. He wasn’t exactly happy to see her, considering their spat over the Mask of Ouroboros, but he agreed to look at Geralt’s wounds. Even with all his experience, he could only confirm that the poison was certainly not one native to Skellige.

He did provide a special brew that could slow down the spread of the poison by putting the body in a more comatose state, but only for a week at most. It’s filled with endrega venom and wolfsbane – fatal to any normal human, but it would work on Geralt in small quantities.

That’s bought them some time, but she’s still had no luck with identifying the cause of the poison. For a moment, she thought it might be Bohun Upas. The symptoms certainly seemed to match: necrotic tissue around the wound, pyrexia, splenogamy, plummeting blood pressure and an increased respiratory rate, the tell-tale jaundice in the eyes. But when she tested a sample, it came back negative.

“Damn it all.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I was certain I’d gotten it there.”

Ameer sits by the fireplace, his back to the blaze. Geralt had started to get cold, so they’d started the fire, but it seems he needs it almost as much as his patient. He’s bundled up in thick woollen clothes, completely unused to the cold climate of Skellige. Around his waist he has fastened a cloth of the an Craite colours. It was given to him by Cerys, to show he is protected by Clan an Craite rather than him having any pride or loyalty to this royal clan. He still wears a hooded cloak – after so long in dimeritium shackles, he’s magically exhausted, and is having trouble keeping his form entirely humanoid. “I thought it might be a type of snake venom that eats the flesh, an Ofieri snake called Yellow Head. It is not – his tongue is not swollen, and there is no rash near the wound. I am unsure what to test now.”

“What about concentrated archespore sap? That’s a necrotic poison, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I have never heard of a case of jaundice. Also, the patient goes into respiratory distress, fewer breaths per minute than normal. What about Toad Foot fungus? I heard it grows in sewers in Redania.”

“Toad Foot fungus…” Yennefer summons her knowledge of the condition. “…No, that tends to accumulate in the lungs. Blood stream infections are killed off by the body, it’s only dangerous when inhaled.” She punches the bridge of her nose. “We’ve tested all the main necrotic poisons. What now?”

Ameer frowns. “Maybe it is more than one?”

“God, that’s a lot of possibilities.”

“Not all poisons will work together. Some may cancel out others. We should test which jaundice inducing poisons would co-exist with necrotic ones. That may help narrow it down.”

Yennefer sighs. “It’s worth a try, that’s for sure.” Right now, they don’t have many other choices.

The door opens without knocking – Skelligers are so rude – and Hjalmar enters the room. He’s a spitting image of his father: tall and muscular, with a broad face and features. He’s rowdier and more impatient, though. Even now, he still wears the garb of a warrior, although Skellige has been waging no wars as of late. She knows that ultimately, despite his rather boorish behaviour at times, he’s good at heart. He’s not unlike his father in that regard, who Yennefer was always fond of even after they ended things between them. Though he should try knocking.

At his presence, Ameer stands up and moves behind Yennefer, arms crossed defensively around himself. He doesn’t look directly at Hjalmar, and his face is shadowed with nervousness.

Hjalmar doesn’t notice this. “I have information that might aid you.” In his hands, he holds a sheet of parchment, which he gives to her. “Cerys spoke to the folks in Fayrlund. They claimed a foreigner provided the poison. Managed to get a description, had it drawn out from the eyewitness accounts.”

Yennefer examines the drawing. It shows a man with a long face and tasselled, shoulder length brown hair. Underneath the man’s fringe, she can see the edges of a long scar peeking out here and there. An unfortunate place to have a scar, but good news for them – it’ll be a useful identifier.

“Has there been any sign of him?”

“None at all – though maybe with the ports closed, we’ll find him.”

“Any idea where exactly he was from?”

“No, only that he was from the continent.”

It’s not much information, but it’s a start. “Thank you, Hjalmar. This will be helpful. And if you do find him, make sure he’s not killed. We’ll need to question him.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll ensure he’s brought to you unharmed.” He grins. “Mostly unharmed.”

When Hjalmar leaves, Yennefer looks at Ameer with a critical and searching gaze.

“What’s wrong? Why did you hide behind me?”

Ameer turns away from her, scratching the back of his neck. He says nothing.

“Ameer…talk to me.” He’s only told her the basic details: he was enslaved by jarl Carrik for a year – an entire year – and Geralt rescued him. She puts her hand on his shoulder. “I’m worried about you.” He’s not sleeping well, and barely eating. Despite the great feasts available to them among the an Craite in Kaer Trolde – roasted goat stuffed with vegetables and soaked in gravy, huge sea bass, oysters, mutton stews and broths – he’s barely touched anything. She knows he’s always had a sweet tooth, so she’s tried to tempt him with carrageen pudding, a surprisingly sweet pudding made from custard and seaweed. The old Ameer would’ve eaten it instantly, but he hasn’t even touched it. Only bread.

Ameer sighs deeply, and walks back to the fire. “I do not trust these people. They scare me. I cannot help it.”

“I’m not blaming you, Ameer. I just wish you’d tell me more.”

He purses his lips. “No. We are busy.”

“You’re exhausted. I’ll continue, but you need to rest.”

“I am not tired.”

“Yes, you are.” She crosses her arms, frowning. “I know you well enough, Ameer. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

He is silent for a long time, lost in thought. He looks so thin. So weak.

They met a long time ago, but she still remembers vividly what he was like. His confident voice could cut clearly across a busy hospital ward, and everyone would instantly do as he said. Now, whenever he speaks, Yennefer has to strain to hear what he says. He was confident, mischievous and intelligent. Now, he is nervous, uncertain, passive. A wrecked shell of his former self.

And to think, he was suffering in Skellige for the past year, and Yennefer had no idea. If only she’d known. Then, she would’ve burnt down jarl Carrik’s castle herself.

“….I do not want to talk about it. Please, Yennefer.”

She sighs, but nods. "…Fine.” She knows not to push him any further. He’ll tell her when the time is right. “You should rest. I’ll keep on working on the poison.”

He nods. “Wake me when you are tired, and I will take over.” She expects him to leave, but he just curls up in front of the fire.

She works in silence, glancing occasionally at her old friend now and then. Eventually, his breathing seems to be become slower in sleep. Then again, that might just be an illusion, in some attempt to make her not worry. It’s impossible to tell with aguaras to start with. Their natural powers, combined with Ameer’s intellect as a doctor makes it even harder to know. He would never cast an illusion to try and scare her or in an act of hostility towards her, though. She can be thankful for that. 

There’s a knock at the door. Yennefer puts down the books she’s been studying. “Come in.”

“Still hard at work?” It’s Ciri, still carrying her swords on her back, her hair windswept.

“Yes. We haven’t made much headway, though.”

Ciri sighs. “Nor us. We’ve closed the ports, but there’s been no sign of this ‘strange man’ from the continent. Don’t know if he’s hiding somewhere on the isle, or if he left before the ports closed.” She’s trying her best not to look at Geralt’s unconscious body. “How…How is he?”

“…We’ve delayed the spread. Ermion’s potion to slow the metabolic rate of his body has certainly helped. It’s given us more time.” Though that time is now running out again, as the potent concoction begins to wear off. She doesn’t say that. “He’s given us access to all his resources for us to identify the poison, too. Including poisons that aren’t native to Skellige. We’re slowly but surely narrowing it down.”

That might be an overconfident statement – though they’ve ruled out plenty of poisons, they’re no closer to actually identifying it. But Ciri breathes out, this news some relief. “That’s good.” She glances at Ameer. “…So…How long have you known him, then?”

“Many years, though it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Ofier is very far away, after all.”

“How did you meet?”

“I was in Nilfgaard, on…business, of the politics sort. Ameer was there at the hospitals, learning more about Nilfgaardian medicine. Though, they were learning more from him than the other way around. He’s had many, many more years of experience.”

Ciri touches her medallion. “He’s not a real elf, is he? My medallion shakes like crazy whenever he’s around. And he made that powerful illusion.”

Yennefer nods. “He’s an aguara.”

Ciri turns to her in surprise. “An aguara? Aren’t those the monsters that steal elf children? And I thought they were only women. And that aguara from the swamp-“

Yennefer holds up her hand, and Ciri stops talking. “…That is true. Have you ever encountered one before?”

“No, but I’ve heard stories, been taught about them.”

“What did Vesemir teach you about them?”

Ciri tilts her head and recites, as if Vesemir were behind her, testing her, “Fox mothers, vulpesses, are powerful creatures of the antherion class. That being, creatures who take the form of humanoids, rather than humanoids who take the forms of animals. Their base form is…fox like, hence the name.”

“Very good. What else?”

“Fox mothers don’t reproduce sexually. They take elf girls, transform them into their own kind. Once that happens, the bond between the Fox mother and her child becomes intensely strong. If someone tries to take their child away, they face the immediate wrath of a being who can manipulate powerful illusions, trick people into their death. And they’ll stop at nothing.”

“Well,” Yennefer smiles, “you have nothing to fear. Ameer has no children, and even if he did, you wouldn’t try to steal them from him, would you?”

“I suppose you’re right…I don’t understand one thing, though.” Ciri frowns. “Fox mothers are an exclusively female race, aren’t they?”

“You’re right. And because of that, he’ll never be a true aguara. When he was a child, he was accidentally taken in place of his twin sister by a Fox Mother. By the time she realised her mistake, she had already given him the spells, transformed him so he was…well, no longer an elf, that’s for certain. He shares the same powers as his mother and his sisters, but he’ll never quite be as powerful.” She remembers when she saw him in a transformed state. She had been surprised to see it – eyes wild and glowing, his ears that of an animal, teeth sharp. When she had expressed this, he’d laughed, and told her of his mother.

“Do you trust him?”

“I certainly have no reason not to. And he trusts me.” When she figured out his secret, she swore not to tell anyone in Ofier or Nilfgaard, and has always upheld this promise. The fact he’s here, though, and was enslaved makes her think that her own secrecy was ultimately futile. Someone, somehow, must’ve figured it out. There’s no way someone could subdue an aguara without knowledge of their tricky illusions, and more importantly how to avoid them.

“Are you’re sure he won’t turn against us?”

“Yes, he won’t. He’s already proven himself to be a worthy ally.” She decides not to tell Ciri this, but if Ameer had wanted Geralt dead, Ciri and Yen would never have even found his body.

Ciri thinks for a moment. “…Well, I trust your judgement, that’s for sure. If he’s a doctor, do you think he’ll be able to figure it –” She pauses suddenly. Holding her finger to her lips, she unsheathes her sword and moves quietly to the door.

Silently, Yennefer shakes Ameer awake, motioning for him to be quiet. He glances at the door, seeing Ciri with her sword, and says nothing. They both stand in front of Geralt. Yennefer readies a spell.

A moment of stillness, then Ciri slams open the door. In an instant, she cuts down one of the three intruders outside the door before he can even lift his axe. The second fires a bolt from his cross bow, which she nimbly dodges. The third takes a step back, dragging his surviving companion away.

“He’s not in there!” He’s staring right at Geralt, but for some reason, he can’t see him. “Intel was wrong! Go!”

The two men begin to run.

“More of the jarl’s men.” Ciri turns to Yennefer. “We need one of them alive, don’t we?”

“I’ll ask the questions, you do the fighting.” She turns to Ameer. “Stay here. Keep up the illusion, hide Geralt and yourself. Keep the door locked and don’t open it to anyone except me or Ciri.”

He looks frightened, but he nods. When she leaves the room, she hears the door click behind her.

They run down the dimly lit hallways, hearing various shouts further down. Ciri is almost impossible to keep up with, thanks to her teleportation powers. But even with her speed, the attackers have a head start.

“Look!” Up ahead, two an Craite guards lie on the floor. One is trying to sit up, groaning and shaking his head. The other isn’t moving at all. As Yennefer gets closer, she sees he’s lying in a pool of his own blood.

“Which way did they go?” Yennefer demands.

The guard points down a corridor to the left. “We cut one badly before they escaped, but then someone in an Craite gear came and helped them!”

So there are people in the an Craite clan who are in on the plot, too. Damn it. This place isn’t safe anymore.

Yennefer and Ciri continue, this time following the blood trail of the injured attacker. “Get ready for a fight. There could be more people than we anticipated.” Yennefer warns her daughter. “Don’t let a single blade pierce you. They could have more poison."

They follow the trail of blood onto the outer battlements, facing the terrifying sheer drops surrounding Kaer Trolde. The wind is savage, throwing Yennefer’s hair into her face, blinding her, assaulting her with salt water and ice. She grabs hold of the stone ledge as the wind buffets her, startling a raven.

“I see them!” Ciri shouts, shielding her face against the wind. Yennefer looks to where she’s pointing – they’re trying to get back to the main bridge, to escape.

One of the men spots them. The injured man and the an Craite man continue running. The last one stops in the middle of the path, unsheathing his sword.

Ciri teleports towards him, launching herself into battle. Each clash of steel sets Yennefer on edge. Does that sword have poison on it? If it does, one single cut and Yennefer will have a dying daughter on her hands too.

The injured man raises his cross bow, aiming it at Ciri. Yennefer launches a ball of lightning in his direction. It hits him and knocks him backwards. He screams and topples over the stone ledge.

“It’s over!” She shouts. But she can see the final an Craite man getting away. There’s no room to get past Ciri and her attacker on the pathway.

“You bitch!” The swordsman catches her blade, knocking it from her hand. Ciri stumbles, grabbing onto the stone ledge to stop her from falling.

It all seems to happen slowly. Yennefer readies a lightning ball, in fear for her daughter’s life. Ciri barely manages to right herself, stop herself from toppling over. The man raises his sword –

And is enveloped in black fog. His sword clatters onto the stone pathway, and he makes a bloody choking sound. He drops to the floor, clutching his slashed chest and neck, writhing for a few seconds before going still.

Yennefer runs and grabs Ciri, pulling her away from the ledge.

“Are you alright? Did he cut you?” She doesn’t want to admit how scared she had been for a moment there.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Ciri stares at the dead man, then towards the last attacker, the man in an Craite clothes. Upon seeing his companion brutally murdered, he begins to run. The black fog chases after him. Some unseen force seems to grab him, trip him up, and slowly drag him back towards Yennefer and Ciri.

“What the fuck – let me go!” He shouts in a panic.

The fog deposits him in front of Yennefer and Ciri’s feet, still swirling around him. “Speak, and we won’t kill you.” Yennefer tells him.

“I’ll not tell you anything!” He spits at her. “You can’t stop us!”

“Where is the man from the continent?” Yennefer casts a fire spell. “What did you use to poison Geralt?”

He grits his teeth, tries to free himself from the grip of the black fog, which just drags him down when he tries to stand up. She tries to read his mind, but his thoughts are only on escaping the strange being holding him down.

“There’s no escape.” Ciri collects her sword and holds it at his throat. “Tell us what we need to know.”

With no warning, he grabs the blade of Ciri’s sword – and plunges it into his own throat.

“No!” Ciri pulls away the sword, but it’s too late. Blood spurts from his mouth, his eyes wide. He makes a horrible gargling noise, then stops breathing, stops twitching.

Ciri sheathes her sword, “Damnit! We were so fucking close!”

Yennefer stares at the dead man. He had rather died than tell her what was wrong with Geralt. All for some political plot that barely had anything to do with Geralt himself.

She sits down against the stone ledge, her head in her hands, not caring for the cold stone or the biting wind that roars in her ears, deafening her. “…We’re running out of time, Ciri. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Running out of time for what?”

That voice. She looks up.

A grey haired man stands on the bridge. He wears a brown long-sleeved tunic and an overcoat, with fingerless alchemic gloves. At his side, a bag is almost bursting with herbs. He looks at her with an amicable face and intelligent eyes, hiding centuries of experience behind them. For a moment Yennefer doesn’t recognise him, it’s been so long. And after all, she’d only seen that face for a moment before it was obliterated by a powerful mage.

“…Regis?”

He smiles at her, and helps her to her feet. “Yes, Yennefer. Goodness, it’s been a rather long time since we last saw each other, hasn’t it? Though our first meeting didn’t end particularly well – for me, anyway.”

She looks him up and down. Geralt had told her about his regeneration, but even so, seeing him now after she watched him be melted into a pillar…

“I never got the chance to thank you for saving my life. Or for helping Ciri. I’m terribly sorry for what happened back there.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear. Neither of us could have predicted how that encounter would end. I only regret we had no chance to truly greet each other in less dire circumstances, having heard so much about you from Geralt.” He looks to Ciri, who’s staring at him as if he seems familiar, but doesn’t quite recognise him. “And this is Ciri. It’s a pleasure to meet you again. Properly, this time. We didn't have much opportunity to talk when we last saw each other. I’ve heard a lot about you from Geralt, too.”

“You’re the higher vampire.” She remembers. “You fought against Vilgefortz.”

“And he paid quite dearly for it.” Yennefer touches his arm, pretending it to be a friendly gesture. In reality, she's curious. His arm is perfectly real. No illusion here. She knows that higher vampires can regenerate, but it’s still incredibly bizarre, going from a shapeless smear on a column to a walking, talking humanoid figure once more. It’s as if he never even met Vilgefortz, never met such a violent end. “But tell me, what are you doing here?”

“I happened to be in Brugge when I received a message, passed on from various ravens across the country, originating in Skellige. It’s a good job I was in Brugge, actually – transferring the message all the way to Nilfgaard would’ve taken a lot longer.”

“What message did you receive?” Yennefer asks.

“It was from Geralt. He said he thought he might be in trouble. Well, something along those lines. The message had become somewhat garbled by the time it reached me, but I could decipher well enough that he was in trouble. Such a message from someone like him shouldn’t be taken lightly, so I came as soon as I could.” Regis looks down at the dead men on the battlement. “And from what I’ve seen so far, I’m glad I did. Where is he?”

They take him back into Kaer Trolde, the blood from the injured attacker still wet on the floor. The dead guard is still lying where he fell, and his companion is gone, probably to go get help. There’s no sign of any more conflict, though. The attackers got in quietly and unmolested, it seems.

“Here.” Yennefer knock at the door. “Ameer? We’re back. The attackers are dead.”

“Ameer? Who might that be?” Regis asks.

“A friend.” She hears light footsteps stop outside the door.

“…Where did we meet?” Ameer calls out.

“Eversten hospital, in Nilfgaard.”

The door clicks, and opens. When he sees Regis though, he grabs Yennefer’s wrist, pulls her into the room quickly, and slams the door shut again.

“Yennefer! That is a higher vampire!”

“It’s all right, he’s with me. He’s a friend.”

Very slowly, Ameer opens the door a crack, staring at Regis warily – who looks amused more than anything.

“Ah, an aguara.” He notes. “No wonder you saw through my form immediately.”

“You can tell?” Ciri asks, surprised. “Even with my medallion, I wasn’t sure.”

“Well, it takes one to know one, I suppose. Both being creatures who can change our corporeal form.” He holds out his hand. “My name is Regis. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Ameer hesitates, looking at his hand suspiciously. Then he shakes it.

“…Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation.” The traditional Ofieri greeting. “My name is Ameer. Are you here to help Geralt?”

“I should hope so. But what’s wrong with him?”

Ameer opens the door more fully, showing Regis the entire view of the makeshift medical bay.

Regis looks past Ameer. His face drops when he sees his old friend unconscious, unmoving on the table.

“He’s alive.” Yennefer tells him as Regis hurries towards him. “But we’re running out of time.”

He wastes no time in his examination: checking his vital signs, his temperature, checking the wound itself. He removes the dressing, examining it closely.

“…Necrosis.” Regis runs his hand over his face, distressed. One of his closest friends is ill, slowly dying. For someone like Regis, who doesn’t have many friends left alive in this world, it must be a dreadful, frightening shock.

He turns away, hiding his face from them. “…What happened?”

“A jarl tried to murder him. He got stabbed with a poisoned dagger.” Yennefer tells him quietly, trying to keep her voice as matter of fact as she can. “He’s sick, and we can’t figure out why.”

“Poisoned? But the witcher metabolism –”

“Isn’t working. Whatever the poison is, it’s too strong to fight off.”

Regis is silent for a moment. He turns back, and his face is unreadable.

“Why? Why was he attacked?”

“He helped Cerys an Craite become queen. Now, he’s caught up in some plot to assassinate her.”

“…The man who poisoned him?”

“Dead.”

“Anyone else who knew about the plot?”

“A steward by the name of Arvid. But he’s dead, too. Word is, he got the poison from a foreigner with a scar. Cerys and her men are searching the isle for him.”

Regis shakes his head. “Too slow. I’ll send out the ravens. They’ll give a more detailed report, much faster. I’ll start research, see what this poison might be.”

Ciri walks over and sits down beside Geralt, taking his hand. “We can’t stay here, though. It’s not safe anymore.”

“Why is that, my dear?”

“Some of the an Craite are involved, too. They knew where we were looking after Geralt. Tried to attack us.”

Regis shakes his head, sighing. “…I never understand you humans and your politics. So much effort, so much killing to get to the top, for what? A role that’s bound to earn you any number of enemies, and most likely eventual death by assassination or war.”

Yennefer glances away. “Trust me, I know.” It’s why she so happily retired from that world. The cruellest thing is, her career in politics hasn’t come back to haunt her, like she feared it might. Instead, it’s come for Geralt, the supposedly neutral witcher.

“I don’t know this island all that well,” Regis admits, “so I’ll rely on you to think of a safer place to move him.”

Yennefer paces back and forth as she thinks. “Perhaps somewhere abandoned? And somewhere warm, that’s a necessity…”

“Somewhere holy.”

She looks at Ameer in surprise. “Somewhere holy? What do you mean?”

“A place with lots of magic.”

“Hm…” she considers this. “I suppose there’s Gedyneith, the sacred oak. The druids of Skellige are based there, Ermion might let us use the druid headquarters. But why?” Her stormy relationship with Ermion aside, it’s not exactly the most cleanly place to bring a wounded man.

“…Arvid and this foreign man may no longer be on the island. It may take too long to find the identity of the poison. We need a…”

“A back up?”

“Yes, that.”

“And what kind of back up are you thinking of?”

He pauses, touching the back of his neck – there’s a scar there, one he got after falling as a child. He touches it when lost in thought. At least that’s something that hasn’t changed. “It is…I do not know what you call it in Common. In Elder Speech, we call it Scaradh.”

“Scaradh?” Regis looks grave. “That’s not something to play around with.”

“I know. And I will only do it if very necessary.” He tilts his head. “You know this magic, too? Will you help prepare it?”

“Of course I will.” Regis says it with zero hesitation. “I just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“What’s Scaradh?” Ciri asks, somewhat impatiently. “Is it dangerous?”

“Very much so, my dear. The word ‘Scaradh’ essentially translates to the word ‘separation’. It involves…” Regis looks at his unconscious friend. “…Taking out a person’s soul. Separating it from the body, so to speak, and storing it in another object for safe keeping, freezing the body in the meantime. But the soul can only remain stable outside the body for a maximum of one, perhaps two, months. And it’s incredibly fragile.” His gaze becomes troubled. “If something happens, if this so called ‘storage unit’ is destroyed, then so is the soul.”

“Gods, that does sound dangerous. I’ve not even heard of something like that.”

Yennefer looks at Ameer. “If you do this – take out his soul and put it in some trinket, he’ll be even more vulnerable than he is now. One fight, one fall, the simplest of mistakes and that trinket breaks...he’ll be dead beyond any recovery.”

“I know. And if the user of the spell – me – and the ‘trinket’ become separated, the spell will weaken, and the soul will…” He frowns, unsure how to finish in Common.

“…The soul and the trinket will lose compatibility. The soul will be ejected, and consequently perish.” Regis finishes for him. “Of course, this is all theoretical. Best-case scenario, we will have either identified the poison, or found the man who sold it and procured a cure from him. But if worst does indeed come to worst, and we run out of time…I’m afraid this may be the only option we have.”

Yennefer sighs. The best-case scenario…She’d like to imagine that with their combined powers – Ciri and the ravens searching the isle for this foreign scarred man, Regis and Ameer with their centuries of knowledge and experience – that they really will identify the poison, figure out a cure. Geralt will wake up, apologise for scaring them, for running off into the Skellige wilderness instead of talking through his worries with his partner, and they’ll slowly help him recover and reverse the damage. It will all end well.

But somehow, she doubts it.


	5. Scaradh

_“An oak which is sacred to all Skelligers, as it is worshiped both by druids and Freya's disciples. The Isle's most important ceremonies are held here, including weddings and royal coronations.” – Map Description of Gedyneith_

For once, the wind is quiet and the air is still underneath the sacred oak Gedyneith. The golden and orange leaves that make up its autumn plumage are lined with frost, glittering in the weak sun. The ground surrounding the oak is frozen, trapping dying flowers and dry grass in hard, compact ice as the season progresses and winter advances to the island.

Normally, Gedyneith is bustling with movement. Birds shelter in its leaves, and druids climb the slopes to pick the seasonal herbs and flowers. But today, ten days after she found her lover dying and poisoned, Yennefer stands underneath a hushed and almost empty tree. It’s just her, Regis, Ameer and Ermion. Ciri is off with Cerys, interrogating the guards and searching for traitors who might lead them to the foreign man. There are no druids, no an Craite guards present; the risk of traitors is just too high. The only birds are ravens, perched among the branches. A fox sits by the base – Regis isn’t the only one with messengers. According to Ameer, the foxes helped him keep an eye on Geralt while he picked herbs, and warned him when a fiend attacked.

Of course, Yennefer had explained away the sight of Regis seemingly telepathically talking to a raven perched on his arm, and Ameer bent down doing the same to a fox, as the two of them being druids themselves from far off lands. Ermion seemed incredibly dubious of this, but he didn’t know enough about Ofier or Nilfgaard magic practices to dispute her.

Besides, he had other concerns on his mind. “As long as you don’t suck the holy magic from this place like a leech, give it the same fate as our beloved garden, then I don’t much care.” He’d said bitterly. She still hasn’t been forgiven for the necromancy in Freya’s garden. All the same, he’d agreed to let them use the oak, provided he was present.

Now, they all gather under the oak. Geralt’s body lies on the same wooden platform where Cerys had been crowned four years ago, the event that started this entire mess. His wolf medallion lies not at his chest, but separately at his side. Ameer steps forwards, the hood of his fur cloak still up. He wears thick leather gloves made from the hardy skin of a stag, with pungent flowers woven around his wrists. A mixture of wolf blood and ash is smeared across his cheeks. Finally, he wears a cord around his neck – raven feathers and bear claws hang from it. The wolf blood, raven feathers and bear claws will help him locate and draw out the soul, apparently, borrowing the senses of the animals from which they came. The thick stag skin, the strong smelling flowers and the bitter ash will help mask his own soul, hide it from the spell. The way he’d described it to Yennefer, as if the spell had a sentience all on its own, made her uneasy. It still does.

Regis tentatively places hot coal in a circle around Geralt’s head, the heat not harming him or even making him flinch. For every piece of coal he puts down, Ameer places wolfsbane down on it, the violet petals dried and fragrant. The petals begin to smoulder gently, the smoke drifting up towards the oak’s branches.

Regis kneels down, holding a wooden bowl in his hands. It contains a blend of ingredients he’s been helping collect and concoct in preparation for this very scenario: a thick substance of goat fat, harpy liver, fork tail venom and yellow yarrow flowers, the combination creating an odd smell. Using a whale bone brush, he marks Geralt’s face – a line on his forehead, two lines on each cheek, and a line across his lips.

Next, Ameer takes out a jar of dark powder. He walks around Geralt’s body, sprinkling it onto his skin, into his hair, around him. It’s a mix of dried human blood, ground human bone, and the earth from around the sacred oak itself, bound together by an elven spell Yennefer had never heard of. For the more morally questionable ingredients, Ameer had taken use of the dead attackers’ bodies from Kaer Trolde. They may not have been useful in providing any information about the poison, but now they’ll help keep Geralt alive for a few more months.

Regis steps back, his job finished. Now, he’ll stand guard, lest their ceremony be interrupted. When Ameer finishes, he lowers the jar and looks at Yennefer.

“It is ready.”

Yennefer steps forwards, aware of Ermion’s gaze watching her intently. She ignores it, and instead focuses all her attention on Ameer, waiting for his cue. This is the hard part. The moment the soul leaves the body, the body itself can’t survive. It becomes lifeless. It has to be frozen immediately.

Ameer kneels down and holds out his hands. He begins to chant in a language that she doesn’t recognise. Ofieri? Or perhaps something different, perhaps something belonging to his own race of vulpesses.

As he chants, his eyes glow green, and his hands emit a sharp blue light, illuminating Geralt’s pale and darkly veined face. He’s back on deaths door once more. Scaradh is the only thing that can save him right now. And thankfully, Ameer knows magic - strange and limited magic, but magic all the same - owing to the strong elven blood that the Fox Mother spells couldn’t quite erase.

Ameer chants louder, the light growing more and more intense. He grits his teeth in pain, struggling to control the light. It looks like it’s moving, trying to break free of his hold. He shouts one last word, then plunges the light into Geralt’s chest.

“Now!”

Yennefer closes her eyes, begins making chants of her own, these ones in simple elvish. She draws on the power of the sacred oak. The magic stored in it is immense, ancient. For such a spell, she’ll need to borrow some.

When she taps into it, her mind is stunned for a moment, the sheer amount of magic knocking the breath from her. But she overcomes it quickly and reaches her own magic capabilities towards the stock pile, siphoning some off for herself. Unlike the garden, she faces no resistance. The oak is a giving organism, lending its body and leaves to the survival of others for generations. It will not mind giving her a small dose of its own vast stores of magic, especially for a spell that won’t drain it like necromancy.

She opens her eyes, feeling before seeing the magic sparking at her fingertips, sending a wave of coldness up her arms. Still kneeling, Ameer holds his hands on Geralt’s forehead. He speaks in that language, opens Geralt’s mouth – and something comes out. White, misty, almost…iridescent. It looks like it could be dispersed by the gentlest breath of wind, yet Yennefer can sense _something_ in it. Not magic. Something…something more unknown than that.

Yennefer takes her own spell, and pushes it down towards Geralt’s body, shouting in elvish. She can’t even feel her own hands as the spell works its way up Geralt’s body. For every inch that the spell passes, it leaves behind deep ice. Over his legs, his chest, across his face, until his entire body is frozen.

Quickly, Ameer guides the white wisp downwards, down towards Geralt’s medallion, speaking softly to it all the while. His hands now glow a soft, gentle yellow. The white wisp swirls for a moment – then suddenly pours into the wolf medallion.

Just like that, the yellow light vanishes. Ameer doubles over, out of breath and holding his hands in pain. Then, he hastily picks up the medallion and places it around his own neck.

Yennefer helps him to his feet. “It is done.” He touches the medallion – the ‘trinket’ which now carries Geralt’s soul inside of it. The fact the tiny metal wolf now contains the soul of her lover is, in itself, quite scary. Despite being around Ameer’s neck, the medallion doesn’t vibrate. Inactive. Perhaps because of the spell.

“You should rest.” She tells him. “You’ve just expended an awful lot of energy.” Her own hands feel like they’ll drop off from the cold.

Behind her, Regis kneels down by Geralt’s body again. Personally, she can’t bring herself to look at his frozen corpse for even a moment. But Regis hesitantly touches his skin, not even flinching at the touch.

“…Cold, far colder than ice could ever be.” He removes his hand. “The procedure was a success. His body will remain in stasis, not decaying, while we find a cure.”

Thank goodness. If she had failed at her own spell, it wouldn’t matter if they found the cure or not. His body is officially deceased, and his soul would have nothing to go back to except a rotting corpse if not for the freezing spell.

“…The oak is unharmed.” Ermion notes, pacified. “For once, it seems you’ve respected my wishes.” The only changes are the ground and oak leaves – the ice and frost has melted away, freeing the trapped plants from their cold prison, and leaving nothing but water on the oak leaves, glistening like dew in the weak light.

“I’ll help move Geralt’s body to the druid base.” Ermion continues. “And I’ll restrict all access to him, in case the plot has leaked its way into the ranks of the druids.”

As Ermion speaks, a raven flies down towards Regis. He holds out his arm and it lands, croaking and cawing. As he listens, his eyes widen in surprise.

“What? Have they found the man from the continent?” Yennefer asks quickly.

“…No.” He says it almost in surprise. “They’ve found the steward of jarl Carrik. The supposedly dead Arvid.”

Yennefer stares in disbelief. “Arvid?” Then she realises. The bodies at the castle were all charred from the fire, beyond recognition. The only proof they had of Arvid’s death was witness reports – unreliable witness reports.

“Where is he?”

“He’s at the whale graveyard. With ten men, some of them an Craite.”

“We need to go immediately.” Yennefer knows the place, so she opens up a portal. “Regis, come with me.”

He’s already walking towards the portal. “I’ll take care of the men, you deal with Arvid.”

“Ermion, guard Geralt. Ameer, stay with them.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, and walks through the portal after Regis.

-

Unlike the oak, the whale graveyard is normally empty. Not much to scavenge from old whale skeletons, not much to easily smuggle away. But today, it’s bustling with movement. Ten men, all armed, some wearing red an Craite colours, others wearing the purple of their dead jarl. Standing on the skull of a beached whale, in the middle of giving a speech, is the man they've needed all this time - Arvid.

Instead of wearing the purple tartan, he's wearing a long green cloak with the hood drawn. It’s decorated at the hem with red runes, and lined with thick black furs.

The noise of the portal draws their immediate attention. When Arvid sees them step through, he smiles.

“Men, it seems we have some….unannounced guests.” He has to shout to be heard over the spray of the waves. “These people are in liege with the witcher, with soon to be deceased Queen Cerys.”

Regis ignores his rambling speech, and turns to Yennefer. “He was clearly behind all this, then. I dislike killing, but I shall certainly make an exception here. Should I kill them now?”

She knows the men on the beach certainly won’t show any mercy towards the two of them. “Kill them, but leave Arvid alive. I’ll deal with him.”

“Understood.”

“…Now, let them face the same fate as their beloved freak.” Arvid finishes his speech. His men start unsheathing their weapons, running towards them.

Regis’s fingers grow into long talons. His eyes turn black, and his teeth become sharp, deadly. A transformation Yennefer has seen once before, but it’s still unsettling.

Th attacking men don’t realise, though. They continue running, shouting, brandishing their weapons. Regis disappears in a cloud of black fog – and reappears, slashing at the attackers. One after the other, the men fall down dead onto the stony beach as Regis’s claws cut through their flesh like butter. It happens so quickly, it’s over in the span of 30 seconds. Not a single man reaches Yennefer. None even had the chance to raise their weapons against her by the time Regis is finished with them.

Arvid looks at his gathering of men – now all corpses lying among the skeletons of giant whales. But he doesn’t look worried. If anything, he looks irritated.

“You brought a vampire? Not exactly a fair fight. Now, let me guess.” He seems completely at ease. “You’re here to find it why I started this coup against Queen Cerys.”

Yennefer summons a lightning spell. “No. Quite frankly I don’t care.” She begins to walk towards him, holding up the spell. “Now, you’re going to tell me what poison you used against Geralt. We can do this the easy way, or the painful way. Right now, I’d much prefer the painful way.”

Arvid just smiles. Suddenly, he summons a ball of ice and throws it down towards her. She barely dodges, and hears a guttural roar.

Where the ice landed, a figure is growing. Hunched over, bulging in form, colossal in size.

An ice elemental. “Shit, he’s a mage!”

The ice elemental raises its fist towards her. She jumps back, avoiding the shock wave just in time. It roars, and makes to strike again – then turns its attention away from her, angrily swiping at the vampire who attacks it with striking claws.

“I’ll deal with this! Don’t let him get away!” He’s impossible to keep sight of, turning to fog and appearing a second later somewhere else, weaving around the elemental much faster than it can keep up.

Yennefer begins running. She summons her lightning and throws it at Arvid. He holds his staff horizontally in front of him, a shimmering veil appearing in front of him. A protective spell. The lightning doesn’t reach him, but the force of the impact pushes him backwards, and he stumbles.

“Tell me the name of the poison!” Yennefer shouts, blasting spell after spell at him. Each time, he holds up the protective barrier against her spells, but Yennefer is driving him further and further back towards the water.

“The poison?” He grins. “I’ve no fucking clue.”

“You’re lying.” She focuses a beam of light at him, shooting the energy at him continuously. His barrier holds fast, for now.

“I told you, I don’t know. Bought it off a traveller. It did the job, that’s all I needed.” She searches his mind. He’s telling the truth. But there’s more.

_No idea why the foreigner gave it to me on the insistence I poison the witcher, but I’ll never tell her that. Fucker deserved it anyway, meddling in our affairs_

“The foreigner told you to poison Geralt? Why?” She shouts.

“You read my thoughts, didn’t you? Dirty wench!” When she tries to read his mind again, it’s defensively blank.

She guesses she’ll have to do this the hard way. She pushes the beam of light harder at him, concentrating all her energy into it. The barrier is beginning to fade, the ocean water lapping at his feet.

Finally, it fades with a crack, and Yennefer’s spell hits him. He falls backwards, the wind knocked out of him.

But as Yennefer moves forwards to strike, he suddenly sits up, planting the staff in the water. Around him, the water begins to swirl – and then rises up in a huge wave above him, at least seven feet high. It crashes down on Yennefer before she even has a chance to register what’s happening, the sheer force of the water knocking her off her feet, her lungs filling with ocean water. She’s blinded, the salt stinging her eyes. Desperately, she digs her fingers into the gravel, trying to stop herself from tumbling anymore and cracking her head open on a rock.

After an unbearable amount of time, the wave finally subsides. Coughing and spluttering, she looks up. Arvid stands over her, his staff in his hand, bringing it crashing down.

Yennefer rolls out of the way, and the staff lands where her head had been, covering the ground in razor ice shards. She gets to her feet, and blasts another lightning spell at him. This time, caught off guard, it knocks him off his feet and he falls with a thud, his staff knocked from his hands.

Yennefer doesn’t give him a chance to recover. She kicks him in the ribs, and picks up the staff. Behind her, she hears the ice elemental give one last roar, then fall with a heavy crash to the ground, slain by Regis.

“Are you quite all right?” He runs over to her, quickly reverting back to his normal form. She can see that his clothes are slightly torn on his right shoulder, but he’s otherwise unharmed.

As for herself, she coughs heavily, leaning against the staff, still feeling the salt in her mouth. Her side feels bruised from where she was knocked over by the wave. “I’m fine.” Gritting her teeth, she lifts the staff and swings it, crashing it against the rib of a whale skeleton.

“Fuck you, wench!” Arvid tries to get to his feet, but Yennefer delivers another kick. He clutches his stomach.

“The man who sold you the poison. Where is he?” She demands.

Despite his pain, he looks up with a mocking smile. “He’s long gone now.”

Yen grabs him by the neck, and begins to apply pressure. “Where?”

Arvid struggles with her grasp. “I’ll n-never –”

She increases the pressure. “Tell me now!”

“Novigrad!” He wheezes.

“What’s his name?”

“He didn’t say!”

Yennefer lets go before he suffocates. He gasps for breath, doubled over.

“Where in Novigrad?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why did he tell you to poison Geralt?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lunges at her.

Regis pushes her away from the knife just in time. Instead, the blade pierces his hand, going straight through his palm.

Arvid turns and runs, his last defence finished. Yennefer doesn’t chase after him; he’s given all the information he knows. She’s been weakened, and is freezing from being doused by the ocean. She’d rather not risk another encounter.

“Regis, are you all right?”

He’s staring down at his hand in shock. “Damn, it’s poisoned!” He doesn’t even try to remove the knife. The fingers on his other hand extend into claws. In one swift motion, he cuts the injured hand clean off, flinching from the pain.

“Oh my God – why –” Regis can heal, surely poison wouldn’t hurt him –

“Couldn’t risk it.” He clutches his bleeding stump, turning away from her so as not to shower her with gore. “That poison – there’s something very wrong with it.”

Gods. If Regis was willing to cut off his own hand to avoid such a poison…Geralt was never even going to stand a chance against it.

Regis sees Arvid running from them, getting ready to open up a portal, and asks, “should I kill him? I’d very much like to, for his role in my friend’s poisoning. I can catch up to him in an instant.”

Before Yennefer can vehemently agree, she hears a shriek – deafening and ugly. Out of nowhere, a siren swoops down towards Arvid, grabbing him and lifting him into the air. He screams and struggles in its grasp, but it drops him quickly, about ten feet from the floor. It flies somewhat erratically, then dives into the ocean, out of sight.

Arvid writhes on the floor in pain. He’s landed perfectly in the rib cage of a whale skeleton. The fall was enough to break a few bones – as Yennefer cautiously approaches, she sees his arm is bent in a way that arms really shouldn’t be.

And standing on top of the whale skull, looking down, is Ameer. He’s still in his ritual outfit, the raven feathers waving in the wind, the bear claws clacking together. The ash and wolf blood are dry on his face. His hood is down for the first time, not hiding the fox ears that give away his aguara race. His eyes are glowing green, and at his neck, the eyes of Geralt’s medallion glow red.

He wasn’t there before, she’s certain of it. Was he hiding himself through an illusion?

“The siren…” she realises.

“I don’t think it was an illusion.” Regis watches Ameer with interest. She tries not to look at the unnerving sight of his hand growing back. “There have been records of Fox Mothers being able to bewitch other creatures for a short time. Including monsters.”

Arvid looks up at Ameer. “What the fu –”

“Do you remember me?” His voice is frighteningly calm.

“You…the slave that mutant freak stole from us.”

Ameer tilts his head. “And yet, here I am. Free, alive. Both things you shortly will not be.”

“Listen. I-I can give you money. Power. Anything you want. Help me, you have no loyalty to Cerys.”

“It is funny, the way you humans act.” Ameer sits down on the skull, resting his arms on his knees. “You were content to watch the other men beat me, humiliate me, treat me like dirt. But when you want help, you grovel and expect me to comply. Very strange. Not a fair exchange, is it?”

He jumps down from the skull, and kneels down beside him. “No. I think I am going watch you suffer at the hands of the woman you hate so much, like you let me suffer for a whole year. _That _sounds like a fairer exchange, does it not?”

“You…You piece of shit!” Arvid shouts as Ameer stands up and begins to walk away.

Ameer pauses, and looks over his shoulder. “By the way, the food and drink that you would have me bring you? I spat in it. Every single time.”

He walks to Yennefer and Regis, ignoring the mage’s screams of rage.

“Do not bother killing him. The foxes tell me that Cerys and your daughter are approaching.”

“That’s a shame. I would’ve been more than happy killing the mage myself.”

“Well, best not to piss off royalty, I suppose.” Regis says. “As much as I agree with your sentiment.”

“Hm.” Ameer gently touches the medallion around his neck, and looks out at the sea. His expression is one of…surprise, almost. “I should feel happy. I thought I would. But I do not.”

“It sounds like you’ve been through a very difficult year. Don’t feel bad if you’re not immediately better.” Regis tells him, trying to be reassuring.

“…I suppose you are right, when you say it like that.”

Yennefer hesitates. She feels that she should say something, but he’s been so reluctant to talk about his experience. Besides, she doesn’t particularly want to show such emotion in front of Regis. She knows he’s entirely trustworthy, owes her very life to him, but she doesn’t know him very well, considering he died shortly after they met. She feels…embarrassed, getting all sentimental in front of him.

But Ameer needs this. She puts her hand on his shoulder and forces herself to say it.

“I’m here for you. No matter what happens, no matter how you’re feeling. I’m here. You know that, right?”

He hesitates, the waves still ringing in the background. Then he places his own hand on top of hers. And smiles. The first genuine smile she’s seen in a long time.

“…Thank you, Yennefer.”


	6. Treason and Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let you know, the majority of these chapters will either be in Regis's or Yennefer's point of view - the next chapter will be in Regis's point of view :)

_“I know some would see another in my place. I thank those who stood at my side. Here, beneath the Sacred Oak, I pledge to be a good queen to the ones and the others. I want peace and prosperity to reign in Skellige. And I count on you to help me fulfil that dream_.” – _Cerys, upon being crowned Queen of the Skellige Isles_

It doesn’t take long for Cerys to realise the true nature of this plot.

At first, it had been painfully slow getting any information about the incident at jarl Carrik’s estate when she returned from Faroe. Most of his men, including the steward, were missing or dead. Her key witness, Geralt, was unconscious from a poisoned wound. Her only other witness, an Ofieri elf by the name of Ameer, knew very little of the reason and nature behind the attack.

True, he’d been able to give a thorough account of the actual events. He’d sat nervously in front of her, shivering in his borrowed clothes. His face looked gaunt and haunted. Slavery…banning it was one of the first things she’d done as queen, but it seemed that all her laws would take a while to actually be practised.

She’d tried to be as gentle as she could in her questioning, asking about why Geralt was there to begin with – a monster contract – about who struck first – jarl Carrik did – and about how they escaped – Geralt started a small fire and they fled through the window. But it had been tricky. His voice was quiet, and though his Common was fairly fluent, he had struggled to understand her accent, while she had struggled to understand his.

Moreover, the entire time they were watched intensely by Yennefer of Vengerberg. The sorceress stood waiting in the background. Cerys has never cared for her much, and always disliked the way Geralt let himself be walked all over by her. She told herself time and time again that her uneasy feelings for the woman had nothing to do with Yennefer's past romantic history with her own father, though she wondered how much of that was the truth.

But dislike had nothing to do with respect, and Cerys knew Yennefer was not someone to let herself be pushed around or coerced. She could respect that, but it also meant she knew that the moment she pushed the Ofieri elf too hard, the sorceress would step in. Even if it meant talking back to the queen of Skellige. Of course, Cerys knew how to deal with stubborn people – Skellige being an isle full to the brim of them – but it was a conflict that would only hinder and distract if it came down to it.

Besides, Ameer was limited in the information he could give. He knew nothing of Skellige politics; seemed unaware that he was even speaking to the queen of the islands, and had no idea why exactly the jarl had chosen to poison Geralt.

The visit to Fayrlund drastically changed things. Cerys had started investigating due to some sense of personal obligation for Geralt. Now, it seemed her own life was on the line.

Amidst the insults that had been hurled at her by the angry farmhand, there was something that had stuck out to Cerys – the mention of Birna.

“Birna would’ve made us rich!”

An odd remark. Why bring up Birna now, well over four years after her death?

It makes Cerys suspicious. She needs to find out more.

\- 

“Cerys, I don’t know what you’re expecting to find. It’s not going to help.”

Hjalmar follows her as she storms down the corridors, towards the an Craite Treasury. “Birna died a long time ago, doubt she has anything to do with all this.”

“That’s not it. There’s something that doesn’t add up.”

She quickens her pace, but he easily matches it. “Doesn’t add up – that doesn’t matter! We need to be interrogating the clans, searching for any other traitors!”

She sighs, and flashes a glare over her shoulder. “I know what I’m doing, Hjalmar. And interrogating all the clans will just breed suspicion and mistrust – and maybe then they really will want to assassinate me!”

She unlocks a small wooden door towards the back of the castle, hidden away in the corner, used only by trusted members of the clan. Inside is a stair well, dark and stinking of dust and mildew. Quickly, she takes a torch off the wall of the hallway and begins to climb down the winding steps.

“It’s always better to strike first! Show confidence! Make them know you’re not someone to fuck around with!” He follows her down the steps.

“I’d rather strike when I have more information at hand.”

At the bottom of the steps is a much grander, solid door. The entrance to the vault of their ancestors. The Treasury.

Cerys hesitates. This place is where the belongings of their grandest ancestors are stored after their death, whatever isn’t burnt in the funeral pyre. Four years ago, she and Hjalmar placed the rest of their father’s belongings in here, after his final battle with the Wild Hunt.

She closes her eyes, inhales sharply, and unlocks the door.

Every corner of the treasury is filled with cobwebs that tremble violently at the sudden movement of new air into the room. It’s a huge chamber, filled with swords and shields, goblets, stuffed animals with their eyes falling out, even a partial and slightly rotting stern of a longship. Most date back many years, before her father or even her grandfather were born. But all is covered in dust – considering the most mighty of an Craite artefacts are displayed proudly throughout Kaer Trolde, the leftovers aren’t maintained nearly as well.

Behind her, Hjalmar starts to cough. “Gods, this place is _dusty_.”

“You’re still here? Not off to interrogate the first person you think looks suspicious?”

In response, he flips her long plait over her head and in front of her eyes, something he’s always done since they were children to try and piss her off. Instantly, she flips it back and sticks her fingers up his nose, hard. She’s always known how to piss him off, too.

“Ow! Le’go!” He catches her arms and they wrestle against each other’s grip. Then, they both let go, sharing a slightly childish laugh.

“You’re incorrigible, you know that, Crooked Gob?” A nickname he got stuck with ever since his accident while ice skating.

“Not as much as you, Chicken Face.” His alternative to Sparrow hawk.

Cerys smiles, the first genuine smile since this whole mess began. “Come on, let’s start searching.”

“What’re we looking for?”

“Birna’s journal.”

“Her journal?” Hjalmar frowns. “We didn’t burn a thing like that?”

“Dad kept it. After the bloody banquet, he thought it best to look over her notes in case she was plotting something else.” He was a smart man for doing that. Mentally, she kicks herself for not doing the same.

Thankfully, they deposited their father’s belongings relatively close to the door, so they don’t have to climb over too many old artefacts.

“Gods, look at this Cerys!” Hjalmar picks up a round shield, rubbing off the grime and dust. It’s gold plated, decorated intricately. “Why don’t we come down here more often?”

“Well, maybe after this is all over, we can have this room be cleaned.”

“For once, I agree with you. Sure to be all sorts of great stuff down here.”

Stepping over an old clothes trunk, she finally sees it. A pile of objects less dusty than the rest: her father’s old belongings.

She tries not to look too hard at his possessions – his old clothes, the very first sword he ever fought with, love letters to her mother – lest she start to tear up. She can see Hjalmar simply refuses to look at them. Thankfully, it does not take her long to find what she’s looking for: a small and neatly kept blue book.

“I think I’ve found it.” Hjalmar takes the torch from her and holds it, giving her enough light to read. When she opens the book, she instantly sees that the handwriting is not her father’s.

“This is it.” Birna’s journal, started just after the death of King Bran.

As fast as she can, she pours over the pages, skim reading the plans Birna had in place if her son had become king. Whether or not Svenrige would’ve listened is another matter, but she certainly had thought things out. Who would become in charge of trade, agriculture, weapons making – even listing specific members of staff she would have in charge, including a court mage.

But she doesn’t mention Carrik, or Davin, or Madman Lugos, or anyone from Clan Drummond. Not even once.

“…See? This isn’t right. Birna never cared for Madman Lugos, found him boorish and irritating. She didn’t care for anyone in that clan. And back then, Carrik was nowhere near in line for position of the jarl. I doubt she even knew who he was. Why would she give _him_ a wealthy position? This confirms it. She had no plans for him, certainly none that would have made him wealthy. Either Carrik was mistaken, or he was lied to.”

“Fine, who cares? Doesn’t tell us anything more about this plot. Birna lied to him while she was still alive to gain his support, and that’s that.”

Cerys shakes her head. “If that was the case, why wait till now to strike? Why not rebel before she was executed? Or before Svenrige left the isle? Or when Lugos was still kicking up, when the Wild Hunt attacked? There’ve been plenty of ample opportunities to take advantage of the chaos. Why didn’t he strike before?”

“Dunno, he was never particularly smart, was he?”

“Or, someone lied to him recently. Not Birna. Someone manipulated jarl Carrik into thinking Birna had great plans for him, helped him think up this plot.”

“Like who?”

“Someone else who would’ve had a loss from Birna’s death.” She thinks hard, pacing back and forth. “Someone without the power or support to pull off a coup by themselves. They had to lay low, garner power slowly over time – that’s why they could only pull it off now!” She turns back to the book, looking for the most likely candidate. All the jarls are out; they’d have had enough support to stage a coup if and when they pleased. Svenrige couldn’t have come back, could he? No, the moment he stepped foot on the island, he would be killed.

She begins leading through the pages again. “The mage she mentioned, maybe it could be him? A mage wouldn’t exactly be popular.” His name is Eilif Heilesen in the text. “He’d have probably laid low, disguised himself, till he had the means and men to start a coup!”

But when she turns to Hjalmar, he’s watching her with a dubious expression.

“This is getting too theoretical, Cerys.” He crosses his arms. “You’re grasping at straws! You have no evidence to support any of this!”

Cerys glares at him. “At least I’m trying!”

“Hey, I have suggested again and again what we should do! We need to be rounding up the remainders of this plot, not wasting our time down here!” He shouts.

“And I’m telling you, there’s no point! There are too many people who could be involved! We need to locate the leader before we try to bring down the rest!”

“And what, you think you can figure it out by looking through that wench’s old diary? Is this a joke?”

“My life is on the line here, Hjalmar! You don’t think I’m taking this seriously?” She throws down the book. “I’ve only been doing this for a few years and already people are trying to assassinate me! Am I that terrible of a leader? All I want is for Skellige to prosper, and people want to kill me for it!”

She stops, breathing hard, and pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s so frustrated, angry – embarrassed. Being the first queen of Skellige was going to be difficult, she knew that. And such plots were always going to be a possibility. She just can’t believe it’s happening so soon.

“…I’m sorry.”

She glances at her brother. He’s staring at the floor, sheepishly.

“I…Look. I’m sorry. I’m just…I’m worried, Cerys. We’ve already lost dad. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. And a plot like this, it’s serious. I just want to help as much as I can”

She sighs. “I’m sorry, too. For losing my temper.” She feels as if they’re young children again, being forced to apologise to each other by their father after they took their rivalry too far and got in a scrap.

“But, let me tell you this.” He stands up straighter, and puts his hand on her shoulder. “If anything happens, if they hurt you in any way, I won’t rest until every last bastard involved in this plot is hunted down and killed. The steel of my blade will be the last thing they see. And their families will know the shame for generations, even after their miserable bodies have rotted away. I swear it on the honour of our clan.”

She tries to summon a smile. Sure, they’ve had their differences and rivalries in the past, but it’s reassuring to know at least someone has her back.

And somehow, slowly in the back of her mind, things are suddenly beginning to make sense.

“Come on. Let’s get out of this shabby chamber.” She picks begins climbing her way back through the clutter. “Think things through again back upstairs, where we’re not going to suffocate on all this dust.”

“Ok. I’m keeping this shield, though.”

“Hjalmar…”

“I’m keeping it!’”

Once they get upstairs, though, any possibility of a calm and productive talk is shattered.

“Queen Cerys!” One of the guards runs towards her in a panic. His head is bruised, his lip split and swollen. “We were attacked!”

Damnit, another attack already? “What happened? How many attackers?” She demands.

“Three, but they were helped by a fellow an Craite!”

She shares a very worried look with Hjalmar. The treachery has infiltrated even her own clan.

“The witcher needs to be moved immediately, and the sorceress warned. Speak to no one of this order - no one at all.” She has no idea how many among the clan are involved in this.

Despite his injuries, the guard runs off to complete this task. Cerys turns to her brother, her thoughts tumbling over each other as the plot becomes clearer and clearer in her mind.

“I have a plan. One that will help us identify the ring leader, once and for all. I’ll need your help. Ciri’s, too.”

At this, Hjalmar grins, in spite the grave situation. “Finally.”

-

Cerys can feel her heart pounding in her ears as she hides, waiting to enact her plan.

Right now, she’s hidden under her own bed. Even with the fireplace roaring and warming the room, she’s shivering. She’s only wearing a plain blue dress, having taken off most of her layers – her thick coat and furs, her heavy belt, her shoulder plates and armour – to help fit more easily under the bed, give her space to be able to move quickly. Her long hair has been tied into a bun, to keep it from getting in her way. She has only two weapons: a long dagger, and a small bomb. Not one made of regular explosives, but one made for her by Ermion. He hadn’t been in the best of moods when she asked a few days ago, probably due to his work place being overtaken by the elf Ameer and a man from the continent called Regis, who claimed to be a friend of Geralt’s. Nonetheless, he’s obliged her request and concocted a potent herbal powder for her. When the bomb goes off, it spreads the powder in a 2ft range. Any who inhale the spores are knocked into a temporary sleep. 

She’s not alone in the room. Though Cerys can’t see her from her position under the bed, she knows Ciri lies in wait in a tiny alcove atop of the huge bookcase in her room. Unlike Cerys, who had to strip down to allow faster movement in her hiding place, Ciri has more…magical solutions to that, being able to teleport out of her position with ease, and so has two swords strapped to her back.

The last person in the room is a simple peasant woman by the name of Hilde. She paces slowly and nervously in front of the bed. Just like Cerys, her hair is ginger and tied into a single plait – not quite as long, but hopefully no one will notice that. Her frame is slightly thinner, but her height is almost the same as Cerys’s. Her face has been marked with ash here and there, in an attempt to replicate scars. Most importantly, she wears Cerys’s clothes: the coat, the belt, the scarf, the furs, the shoulder plates, even the royal crown itself.

Of course, the an Craite guards know very well what Cerys looks like, and the moment they see Hilde’s face, they’ll realise the trick. But from behind, with only the back or the side in view, she looks enough like Cerys to fool anyone.

It’s been three days after she read Birna’s diary, and Kaer Trolde was infiltrated by jarl Carrik’s men. Geralt has been moved safely to Gedyneith, while the elf, Yennefer and her friend Regis prepare some sort of spell. In the meantime, Cerys has been hard at work keeping this a secret, making sure no one knows about Geralt’s true location. Instead, she’s spread false information about where she’s hiding Geralt, supposedly in the cellar. Any traitor wouldn’t fall for such an obvious set up, though, so she consequently spread another rumour, claiming the cellars to be a lie and instead pretending she’s really hiding him in the Treasury. The feigned secrecy of this second location, combined with the limited access to the Treasury, will hopefully trick the traitors into believing Geralt is hidden there. And when they sneak down, they’ll be met with a fully armed and angry Hjalmar.

As for Cerys, she told all the guards that she’d be in her room, working, and ordered them not to disturb her. She also turned down any offers to have any guards stationed outside her room – leaving her tantalisingly vulnerable, unguarded.

Now, all they have to do is wait. And she’s not left waiting long.

The door creaks open. Hilde freezes, her back to the wall.

“What – What is it?” She says, trying to alter her voice.

From her position under the bed, Cerys sees a pair of boots standing by the door.

“We have news.” The pair of boots is joined by two more. Three attackers, then. “About the witcher.”

“A-Another time. I’m busy.”

Cerys hears a quiet but unmistakable sound of unsheathing metal.

Now.

She rolls the bomb out at the attackers. A moment later, there’s a hiss – a man suddenly comes in her line of sight, slumped on the floor asleep, his sword clattering beside him.

Quickly, she gets out from under the bed, and grabs Hilde, pushing her out of the way just as the second attacker swings an axe. It narrowly misses the woman.

“Hilde, get down!” She unsheathes the dagger, minuscule in comparison to the weapon of her attacker.

The third attacker is raising a cross bow, aiming it. Suddenly, Ciri appears behind him in a flash of blue. With a battle cry, she slices her sword cleanly through his chest.

The man with the axe tries to strike again. She just manages to dodge, the axe swinging an inch away from her chest. He tries again, the axe coming down at her from above. She throws herself to the side, and the axe embeds itself into the wooden frame of the bed.

Gritting her teeth, she takes her dagger and plunges it into the man’s back. His body twitches, blood spurting onto her clothes and face. His grip on his weapon fades, and he falls to the floor.

“Oh shit!” Two more men are at the door. Messengers, or back up, maybe. “It was a trap!”

They start to run. But they don’t get far. Ciri teleports to one, slitting his throat in one clean motion. Cerys wrenches the dagger from the axe wielder’s back, and throws it at the other fleeing man. It embeds into the back of his neck. He falls down dead, instantly.

Panting, Cerys retrieves her dagger from the dead man, wiping the bloodied metal on the hem of her dress and sheathing it. Ciri drags the unconscious man to the wall and ties his wrist together.

All the attackers were an Craite men. Cerys ignores the sick feeling in her stomach and walks to Hilde, pulling her to her feet. The woman is trembling violently.

“Are you all right?”

She simply stares, mouth agape at Cerys. “I-I…I…”

Cerys is aware that her own appearance probably doesn’t help. Her hair came loose in the fight and is strewn over her shoulders, splattered with the same blood that stains her face and dress.

“You did well.” Cerys tries to be reassuring. “You were brave to do this. I’ll ensure you’re rewarded greatly.” And she means it. One false move, and this woman could have been killed in her stead.

Hilde nods mutely, but she still looks in shock. Cerys sees some of the blood from the attack has sprayed Hilde’s cheek. Not much, but for someone not well versed in fighting or battle, it must seem like a lot.

“Ciri, will you take Hilde somewhere safe? Help her clean up?”

“Of course.” Ciri takes Hilde’s arm gently. She throws a smile at Cerys.

“You fought well. Don’t think those assassins would’ve stood much chance against you, even without the surprise attack.”

“Well, I doubt it would’ve gone so smoothly without your help. Might’ve been dead with an arrow in my back if not for you.”

Ciri smiles, and leads Hilde from the room, taking care to avoid the dead bodies as much as she can.

Not long after, the only living attacker begins to wake up. Groaning, he tries to stand up, only to realise his hands are tied. He sees the bodies of his dead comrades, and Cerys standing over him.

“It was a trap.” He says blankly.

“I know you.” Cerys narrows her eyes. “At the End Times, my father saved you from one of the wraiths. Cut it down before it could kill you. And this is how you repay him? Bringing dishonour on our clan?”

“You are the one who brings dishonour!” He spits. “Ignoring the Black Ones and making our island weak! You’re no queen!”

“Is this why you’re in league with the mage?” She says, bluffing. “You don’t care about Birna’s promise. Is this how he convinced you to join his plan?”

“What – how do you know about Eilif Heilesen?”

“You’re not very smart, are you?” Honestly, she’s expected more of a challenge to get the information out of him. “How did he infiltrate jarl Carrik’s estate?”

He turns away stubbornly. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“Was he a farm hand? A warrior? The steward?”

On the last option, his jaw tightens, and he stares very hard at the wall, trying hard not to look at her or change his face.

“The steward. He pretended to be a steward.” Arvid must not have really perished in the fire. He’s hiding out there somewhere, plotting to kill her.

“Cerys!” Instead of an attacker, her brother is at the door. A little bruised, but otherwise fine. The blood splattered on his warrior garb proves the attackers fared much, much worse.

“Any luck? Did they fall for the bait?”

“They did.” He says triumphantly. “And they told me where their leader is.”

\- 

The beach of the graveyard isn’t just littered with the bodies of whales. Blood stains the sand and rock from the corpses of men, some wearing the colours of their deceased jarl, others wearing the familiar red an Craite colours. A flock of seagulls fly excitedly over the beach, screeching and squabbling among each other. But instead of descending upon the body of a freshly beached whale, they peck at the carcasses of the dead men.

Cerys, Hjalmar, Ciri and an entourage of soldiers climb down from the hills and onto the beach. The wind coming off the sea is strong and cold, and she can taste the salt from the waves on her lips. But she shows no discomfort in front of her men. At first, she had been hesitant about bringing guards with her, lest one turn around and try to kill her. But then she decided that this needed to be a lesson to them. Upon seeing their ring leader die, any other traitors – or men who might yet be swayed by the mage’s rhetoric – will lose their edge, become panicked and disorganised.

In the distance, she sees three people watching the scene curiously. Yennefer, for some reason, is soaked to the bone, shivering in the wind. Ameer wears an unusual outfit, one similar to those that the druids wear. And Regis holds something wrapped in suspiciously bloody cloth in his hands.

As soon as she sees them, Ciri vanishes in a flash of blue and appears with them an instant later, making Ameer jump. She embraces her mother tightly. None of them try to speak up or interfere as Cerys approaches the sounds of pain and vile curses coming from the rib cage of a whale skeleton.

The mage is writhing on the ground like a worm, trying to claw his way forwards. His arm and leg look broken.

“Eilif Heilesen.”

At her voice, he looks up at her, hatred quickly overcoming his face.

“You stand accused of treason and attempted murder.”

He spits at the ground by her feet, his voice filled with contempt. “Oh really? Care to explain, your glorious highness?”

She holds her head up high. “I’d gladly explain your wickedness and treachery. Birna had offered you a position of court mage, if her son became king. When she died, you had no power or support to attempt a coup.” Not many would trust a mage over their own jarl or ruler. “You never tried to approach me yourself. No doubt you knew I’d never trust one who had associated with Birna. And you’d be right. The only one who was foolish enough to be taken in by you was jarl Carrik.”

Eilif Heilesen says nothing. Her men stay silent.

“You disguised yourself as a steward and called yourself Arivd. And you invented some story, told him you’d found evidence that Birna would have given him a wealthy position in charge of trade if she’d gotten away with the bloody banquet. It must have been easy after that.” She paces slowly back and forth in front of the whale carcass.

“Jarl Carrik fell for it, rallied his men to rage against anyone who had played a role in Birna’s death – including myself and the witcher. As for the rest,” she looks at her own men – some looking down at the mage with contempt, others listening with shock and confusion – “you took advantage of the unsavoury opinions about my own rule. Fed them and encouraged them, until even some among my own men believed I was an ineffective ruler. Passive and weak.” This is perhaps the most frightening part of his plot. He’d hatched up no plan to try and make Cerys seem like an ineffective ruler. He’d simply used the doubt and discontent already present in the an Craite clan, amplified it to treacherous levels through chatter and petty bitching. She swears to herself to never underestimate the importance of her public opinion and the quiet talkings in the ranks ever again.

“With jarl Carrik and his men following your ideas blindly, and disloyalty in my own clan, you now had the perfect support to stage a coup.” She looks down on him scornfully. “Am I right? Please do correct me if I’m wrong.”

“…You think you’re smart, don’t you?” He finally says, glowering at her. “But I had this plan in the works for a long time, and you never realised.”

His words strike true. She had been naïve, too focused on trying to prove herself to be just as good as King Bran or her father. Never again will she be so complacent.

“You’re the foolish one!” Hjalmar steps forwards aggressively, his sword already in his hands. “You could’ve feigned ignorance, pretend jarl Carrik forced you into it, yet you admit it! All this plotting in the name of some bitch who had her guts ripped out by harpies over four years ago! What were you even expecting to happen? Who were you even trying to support?!”

Cerys puts her hand on her brother’s arm gently. “…You, Hjalmar.”

He stares at her in disbelief. “What…What are you saying?” He sounds almost hurt.

He’d been right in one sense – it’d make no sense for the mage to rebel against her in the sake of a job when the one who had promised the role was long dead. It was Hjalmar’s passionate and heartfelt promise that had made her realise.

“Jarl Carrik wasn’t just to garner support. He was also there to take the blame. When I died, Eilif Heilesen would come to you with evidence that jarl Carrik was behind my death, proof that he had planned the assassination.”

“…And I’ve had believed him, trusted him.” Hjalmar finishes, his voice shocked in the realisation. “I’d have been grateful, even. Given him a trusted role by my side when I inevitably became king.” Quickly, his expression turns to one of anger. “How dare you! How dare you try to manipulate me in such a way!”

Eilif Heilesen just laughs. “You’re a bloody fool. Loyal, you’d never turns against your sister, but still a bloody fool.”

Cerys holds her arm out in front of Hjalmar, before he eviscerates the mage. “You’re not so clever yourself. I’ve no idea why you took such a risk, luring the witcher to the castle to murder him. But he ruined your plan when he killed jarl Carrik, the man who was supposed to take the fall for my death.”

Now, she turns to her men. The an Craite soldiers watch her silently.

“I know there are some among you who’d see another in my place.” She shouts, her voice carrying even over the sound of the waves. “There are some who think me weak, cowardly even, for wanting peace instead of constant pillaging and war. Even now, I know there are some among you who side with this villain. But let me tell you this.”

She points at the mage. “This man is filled with dishonour and trickery. When jarl Carrik died, you were his back up. After the deed was done and I lay dead, he was planning to turn you in. Reveal you to be traitors to your own clan to my brother, let you all face his wrath while he gained power and settled in comfort with the role of court mage. He never cared about honour, tradition, war or glory. That was all just a rouse to draw you to his side. In the end, was going to use you all, trick you, condemn you to death.”

She spreads her arms out wide, looking slowly across the crowd. “If any of you still side with this mage, even now, then make yourselves known. Attack me now, if you must. Show yourselves to be taken it by his deception.”

No one moves, but she hears quiet murmurs among the crowd.

Her brother steps up beside her. “And let me say – all those who think my sister weak are fools! Blind, cowardly fools who are afraid of change!” His voice is even louder than hers. “What is the point of waging constant war if we are weakened by constant squabbling and fighting among ourselves? Any enemy would gladly take advantage of that! It was Cerys who was wise enough to know this. I’d never had understood it.” He throws down his sword.

“If you still have quarrel against my sister, then strike against me, too. For I stand with her. If you are her enemy, then you are mine. And if you seek to kill her, then you’ll have to kill me too.”

Silence.

Not a single man moves, nor draws his sword.

Finally, all look upon her and her brother with genuine respect. And look upon the mage with anger and hatred.

She breathes out, surprised by the huge surge of relief she feels. She glances at her brother, smiling. He smiles back proudly.

Behind them, the mage grunts in pain. He’s grabbing onto the rib cage of the whale skeleton, dragging himself excruciatingly to his feet.

“It’s over.” Cerys says coldly. Enough of this foolishness.

“You ruined everything!” In his hand, he brandishes a tiny hunting knife. “I’ll kill you!”

Anger fills Cerys. Even now, his plan in shambles, he refuses to give up.

In one fluid movement, she unsheathes her sword. The mage lunges forwards, his pure rage fuelling his movement even against the pain. His face is filled with mad desperation.

She simply moves sideways, avoiding his attack, and brings her sword down. Right in the middle of his back, the sword cutting cleanly through him and out to the other side. The tip of her blade sticks out from his chest.

He flails, sputtering half formed curse words. She grasps the handle of her blade tightly, and pulls it out again. Blood pours from the open wound, and he drops down dead.

Sighing, she sheathes her sword. After all this – the poisoning of a family friend, the attacks, the betrayal – the end of his plot came surprisingly easy. His body is pitifully small next to the remains of the whale. Already, the seagulls and scavenger birds wheel overhead, eyeing his corpse with hungry eyes.

She looks at her brother, at her finally loyal clansmen. Tired, but triumphant.

“It’s over.”


	7. Departing Skellige; Arrivals in Novigrad

_“No one can claim to have travelled the Northern Realms who has not been to Novigrad. If I were forced to list what during my many meanderings has made the greatest impression on me, it would be precisely this great, and yet at the same time free, city.” – Pearls of the North – Novigrad_

Regis is plagued with a loneliness he has never felt before.

He sits in the druid base beneath the sacred oak Gedyneith, attempting to sew up his torn clothes in the dim light. He has to turn his head awkwardly, which means he keeps on botching up the stitches, pricking his finger. But he wants something, anything to do.

He’s used to certain types of loneliness. Living at Brugge and Sodden by himself. Always on the fringe, never getting too close to the humans who he can never truly fit in with, their short life-spans practically flashes in comparison to his own. He’s spent many nights alone, watching the stars as he tends to his herbs and plants. And the loneliness is one that makes his heart ache, one that he masks with thoughts about the world and its philosophy. If particularly bad, he seeks out the ravens; gives them food and contents himself with their trivial and nonsensical avian gossip that, at times, he can’t make heads nor tails of. Mandrake moonshine certainly helps to ease the aching in his chest and take his mind to happier things.

But the loneliness is a familiar one. A loneliness entirely natural for an immortal being who will outlive humans, time and time again. A loneliness entirely natural for one who must always, constantly be hiding their true nature from the rest of the world, a world he does not and never will truly belong in. He knows very well how to cope with such a feeling, even acknowledges it to be a normal part of his life.

This loneliness is different. Unusual and unnerving.

Only a few feet from him, Geralt lies on a makeshift bed. His entire body is frozen over with thick frost, discolouring his face and clothes. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

The body is, in fact, dead.

Without the soul, it cannot function. It is little more than an empty shell now.

Regis tries not to look at it, pouring his concentration into sewing up his clothes. He had always known Geralt would die before him. It would take a much longer time than most humans, since witchers have an unnaturally long life-span, but it would happen eventually. Maybe he’s just become complacent. Since a witcher is much harder to kill than a regular human, he became settled into the idea that Geralt was a friend who wouldn’t die in a heart beat, and the thoughts of him dying seemed so far away.

Geralt isn’t immortal, though. Regis would be wise not to forget it.

But that’s the thing – it’s not grief that Regis feels, because Geralt is not truly dead. His body is, but his soul is still alive and well. Trapped inside a wolf medallion.

The medallion in question hangs around the neck of Ameer the elf, Ameer the aguara. Right now, he’s curled up next to the roaring flames of a small fireplace, the main light source of the room. Such a fire won’t be able to melt the ice that covers Geralt’s body, which is magical in nature and ten times colder than natural ice itself. Ameer has scrubbed off the ash and blood from his face, taken off the gloves and necklaces, but he still wears the hood firmly over his head. No doubt a year of being shackled with dimeritium has exhausted his powers, and made maintaining an elven form tricky. His face looks thin and slightly gaunt, and his eye brows twitch into a frown in his dreams. As he sleeps, the wolf medallion on his chest rises up and down with his breathing.

Is he aware of what’s going on in there? Can Geralt sense their presence? Does Geralt even know that Regis travelled all the way to Skellige to find him? He wishes he could talk to him, ask him more about what happened, or even just chat as old friends.

That’s why this loneliness is so strange. He’s never experienced such a situation before – being in the presence of a dear friend, but being unable to communicate with them in any way, not check how they’re doing, or even see them. Not exactly absent, but not entirely present, either.

It’s not the kind of loneliness that causes the dull aching in his chest, one washed away by ravens and alcohol. It’s a kind of loneliness that causes dread and uncertainty, emotions that vampires rarely feel.

Geralt might die. He might not. Regis isn’t sure. And he can do nothing to discuss this dilemma with Geralt himself.

The needle pricks his finger, startling him more than hurting him. He jumps, accidentally pulling out half of his stitches.

“God damn it!” He throws down the needle in a brief fit of frustration, and resists the urge to swear very loudly. He pacifies this urge by thinking,

_Everything about this situation is God fucking awful._

His outburst wakes up Ameer. It’s a subtle change; he doesn’t sit up, speak, or even move. He simply opens his eyes and watches Regis.

“…I apologise.” Regis picks up the needle, feeling abashed. “I just pricked myself.”

Ameer gets up and sits down by Regis. He takes the needle and begins to sew up the tears himself.

“How did this happen?” He asks.

“The ice elemental that Arvid summoned. Its ice shards snagged me. Of course, it didn’t hurt me.” Elementals are much harder to bring down than humans, owing to their lack of vulnerable flesh and delicate body systems, but with the right perseverance they can still be slain.

“Well, you are a vampire, are you not? I was never worried about you. Even a dragon could not really harm you.”

“Hm, I suppose. Though it’s best not to get cocky about such things.” His encounter with Vilgefortz taught him that much, at least. Even immortal beings can be…incapacitated if the correct methods are used.

And that poison…when the mage’s blade pierced his hand, he hadn’t wanted to risk it getting into his circulation. In fact, the pain of the poison was more than the pain of severing his own hand. Of course, he’s felt much, much worse pain than that, but the fact it was able to cause him any pain at all must mean it’s terribly potent. Yennefer requested that she study the tissues and the poison from the severed hand. Regardless of the tissue differences between a higher vampire and a mutated witcher, Regis had agreed – though it feels very strange, not cremating the tissue like his codex demands.

Ameer sews up the tear much faster than Regis did, his eyes glowing green in the low light. As he sews, he hums a tune, one Regis doesn’t recognise – maybe an Ofieri song?

It’s a thoughtful gesture, but Regis can’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable. Even to vampires, Fox Mothers are a reclusive and mysterious race, normally only interacting with humans and elves for the sake of children. The two races stay out of each other’s ways, and just like vampires, Fox Mothers don’t like to reveal much about themselves, so even vampires don’t know much more than the humans and elder races do. He doubts that he’d be able to tell the difference between reality and a vulpess-created illusion, either. Maybe with experience, but that’s not something he has a lot of when it comes to this race. And considering one of Regis’s strongest suits has always been his knowledge and experience, being faced with something, someone, he knows little about makes him uneasy.

“Thank you for your assistance.” No point in being rude, though. Besides, it would do well to befriend the one who carries Geralt’s soul around his neck.

“It is fine.” Ameer rolls up the thread. “…How do you know the witcher, may I ask?”

“We met some time ago. I was helping him find his daughter.” He finds himself suddenly unwilling to speak about it, ravaged by that same loneliness, but Ameer does not notice.

“That is the silver haired girl – Yennefer’s daughter, is it not?”

“Indeed it is.”

“Does he know you are a vampire?”

“He does.”

Ameer looks slightly surprised. “He does? And you are friends, even though he is a witcher?”

“Yes. He wasn’t particularly thrilled when he found out, I’ll admit that, but we remained friends anyway. Good friends.” He’s trying very hard not to look at the medallion hanging around Ameer’s neck, swaying slightly whenever he moves.

“…So, you’re a doctor?” He tries to change the subject instead.

“Yes. I was. When I was still in Ofier.”

“What was that like?”

Ameer tilts his head. “Our hospitals are more advanced than what I have seen here. But we have some diseases that this country does not – illness spread by flies and other insects.”

“Ah, parasites that use flies as vectors, and humans as hosts, you mean? You’re right, the only cases I’ve heard of those anywhere vaguely north is in Toussaint. And even then, only an occasional incident here and there.”

“You are very knowledgeable. Are you a doctor, too?”

“Not quite. I would classify myself as a barber-surgeon. I also have over 400 years of experience living in this world, which certainly helps. How old are you?” He isn’t entirely sure of aguaras’ life spans.

“300. Young for my species.”

“I see…What did your brethren think of your career options? I didn’t think aguaras liked to mingle with humans much.”

“There is truth in what you say. My mother was very…sceptical when I showed an interest. She says that humans are foolish and cruel. Many share her sentiment, prefer to live undisturbed in the wild. But not all.” He smiles. “There are more of us than you think. Those who are most powerful in their illusions will never be detected, even among many humans and elves. Some may even fool a witcher’s medallion, like you vampires can.”

“Is that so? Can you?”

“Mm…Not quite. I am not a true aguara; I am male. My power is not as strong. And most aguaras do not choose to conceal their presence from a witcher’s medallion.”

“Why is that?”

“As a warning. If the witcher is smart enough to know he is in the presence of an aguara, he will run away. If he is not, he will shortly perish. But do not worry. I would not attack this witcher. He helped me.” He smiles somewhat bitterly. “My mother was right in some ways. Humans are cruel. But not all of them are, and we do recognise that. We are not mindless beasts who seek to kill and eat humans.”

“I never assumed you were. Higher vampires are the same – though perhaps with a more notorious reputation.” He pauses. “Your mother – do you mean your Fox Mother?”

“But of course.” Ameer stares at Regis in confusion. “Who else would I mean?”

That is something Regis can never truly understand – how such a fierce, strong bond is created between the Fox Mother and her Child when the elf in question has been abducted from her real parents. He supposes he can’t question or understand the effect of the magic spells that transform these mysterious beings, in the same way that humans cannot begin to understand the thoughts and feelings of a vampire. But to him, it’s still odd.

“Well, I…You really love your Fox Mother, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“What about your other parents?” When he gets nothing but a blank look, he elaborates. “The ones who gave birth to you?”

“They have been dead for many years. Why are they relevant?”

“Never mind.” There’s clearly no reasoning with him on this topic. “Are you going to come with us to Novigrad? Or will you stay here?”

“Novigrad.” Ameer says immediately. “I am worried that if I stayed here, the soul would be tempted back into the body. Besides,” his face hardens, “I do not like this country. I hate it. It is too cold and I only have memories of enslavement. I refuse to stay here.”

Regis doesn’t know why he bothered asking – of course Ameer would want to leave this place. Regis cannot claim to know the aguara very well, but he’s neither stupid nor unobservant. The very act of being on these isles makes Ameer immensely uncomfortable. In fact, he barely eats. The only time Regis has actually seen him eat was when Yennefer forced him to eat after the Scaradh spell, insisting he regain some of the energy used up by such a complicated enchantment. Eventually, Ameer acquiesced and had some cream of wheat, which Yennefer drowned in butter and honey, still obviously worried about his thinness and lack of any appetite. But who can blame him? He has no good memories here. Only cruel ones.

“Well, that makes two of us.” Regis isn’t entirely fond of this place, either. A country filled with many people who value brawling and spilling blood over thoughtful and peaceful interactions isn’t something he particularly warms to. And while Queen Cerys certainly seems to be an enlightened ruler who might change this, Skellige will now always be the place where Regis’s dear friend was brutally poisoned.

At first, he decides not to ask. It seems foolish. But at the last moment, he gives in to the temptation.

“Can he hear us?”

“What?”

“Can Geralt hear us? In this state?” He finally glances at the medallion. “Do you think his soul is aware of what’s going on? Can he hear me speaking?”

Ameer thinks about this. “I do not know, truthfully. I have only practised this spell once, when a shipment of medication was delayed and my patient was dying. They did not mention it, but I do not know for sure.”

“I see.”

He asks nothing else about it, instantly regretting the question. And as that loneliness plagues him once more, he tries and fails to look at anything but Geralt’s frozen body.

——

The wind is sharp and strong at the Skellige harbour, giving large ships and fishing boats alike great speed. Good. The sooner they leave this place, the better, Regis thinks.

They’ll be travelling to Novigrad by ship. Yennefer had considered travelling by portal, but considering the still too recent massacres that mages and nonhumans faced in the so-called free city, she decided against it, even with Radovid dead and rotting. Four years isn’t a long time for someone who’s been alive for one hundred years. As for Regis, he could easily turn into fog and travel back to the continent, the same method he used to get here. But he’s vigilantly aware of Geralt’s instability in the medallion. It could break all too easily, and their mission would be over before they even reached Novigrad. He should stay on the ship, just in case.

He, Yennefer, Ameer and Ciri are joined by Cerys and Hjalmar at the docks. No an Craite guards accompany them today.

“We hadn’t realised you’d be leaving so soon.” Cerys says. “I had planned to do this at Kaer Trolde, make a ceremony out of it. But here will do as good a place as any. You all helped apprehend a vile traitor, and in doing so helped stop my clan from crumbling into chaos and treachery. For this, you have not only my thanks, but the thanks of the whole an Craite clan.”

First, she turns to Yennefer. “For you, we offer this.” She hands her a horn, black and carved with a crow on the side, capped with polished silver and embedded with purple stones along the rim. “A summoning horn, imbued with magic.”

“Should you be in trouble on your quest to help Geralt, sound this horn, and we will know where you are.” Hjalmar says. “We will be ready to offer you our sword in battle.”

“And I shall teleport them to you.” Ciri says with folded arms. She looks very unhappy.

“Thank you.” Yennefer takes the horn carefully in her hands.

“Go well, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Horsewoman of War.” Now, she turns to Regis. “For you, we offer this.”

She holds forwards a book, a rather hefty tome with slightly yellowed papers, bound in sturdy leather. On the front are golden runes enclosed by a snake devouring its own tail in a perfect circle.

“We thought you might find this useful. It’s a tome belonging to the druids, one listing as many herbs and poisons as is possible to fit into one book.”

“Perhaps it might give you some more clues to the identity of the poison, or at least some ideas to help slow it further should your quest fail.” Hjalmar folds his arm. “Though we pray to mother Freya that you won’t find yourself resorted to that.”

“Thank you.” Regis accepts it. “It should be helpful.”

“Go well, Regis, ally of wisdom.” Now, Cerys turns to Ameer. “It’s my greatest shame that you were treated so cruelly in our home island. We promise to hunt down any survivors of Carrik’s clan, bring them to justice. Even so, please accept these gifts.”

She hands him a black cloak, embroidered elegantly with glossy raven feathers around the shoulders. “Even Novigrad will be terribly cold at this time of year. I hope this keeps you warm.”

Now Hjalmar speaks. “And please, take this.” It’s a long knife, sheathed in leather. The hilt, made from white antler, is carved beautifully on the sides with dragons, their bodies twisting in and out of each other. “I hope it serves you well.”

“Go well, Ameer, protector of souls.”

Despite his trauma and his hatred towards these isles, Ameer smiles. “Thank you. I will treasure them.”

After Cerys and Hjalmar leave, Regis and Ameer retreat somewhat, to allow Yennefer and Ciri some privacy.

Yennefer embraces her daughter tightly, and strokes her face. “Stay safe.”

“You know I will.” Ciri looks sadly at the boat. There had been a big argument, one he’d happily stayed out of, about Ciri staying in Skellige instead of travelling with them. In the end, Yennefer had managed to convince her to stay, on the grounds that she was the only person they could trust to guard Geralt’s body. Even with Queen Cerys killing the mage, all the treason that had sprouted like weeds among the an Craite clan has made Yennefer rightfully wary of leaving Geralt alone with them.

“…How long will you be away?”

“No more than two months. That’s the absolute maximum the spell can work for.”

Ciri nods, slightly forlorn. Yennefer’s gaze softens.

“I’m sorry that it’s ended this way. This is not how I imagined our family reunion would go. And I hate to leave you here alone.”

At this, Ciri tries to smile. “I’m not really alone. Ermion is certainly happy to catch up with me. So is Hjalmar. And…the poisoning…Not much either of us could’ve done. All you can do now is find the bastard who did this. When you find him, give him a…special greeting from me.”

This makes Yennefer smile slightly. “Oh, I will do.”

“What should I do if something happens? Cerys said she was planning to search for the mage’s base, see if he left any other important notes behind.”

This time, Regis speaks. “Find a raven. They can pass on a message to me. Granted, it may take a few days for the message to be transferred across the sea to the continent, but I’ll receive it all the same.”

“Do I need to perform a spell or something when I want to speak to them?”

“No need. Simply tell them what you need to, and they’ll do the rest.”

The ship’s captain calls to them. “Ship to Novigrad is settin’ off shortly! Get on board or you’ll be left behind!”

“Remember, don’t let anyone near the body.” Yennefer says quickly.

“I know.”

The captain shouts again. Ciri hesitates, then hugs her mother one last time.

“Stay safe, mama.” She whispers. “I love you.”

“And I love you, my daughter.” Yennefer whispers back. Though their voices are quiet, the exchange intended to be private, Regis hears it clearly with his enhanced vampiric senses. However, he pretends not to.

“Good luck. Be careful.” She turns to Regis and Ameer, giving them both a quick hug. “You, too. Stay safe, both of you.”

As the ship leaves the harbour, Yennefer stands by the bow silently and sombrely, watching her daughter get further and further away. When Regis comes to stand beside her, she fixes him with a steely gaze, almost daring him to say something on the matter.

“This place is beautiful in its own way, isn’t it?” He says instead. From here, he can appreciate the stunning vista of snow-capped mountains, rolling hills sheathed in heather, lush fields and forests of green pines and orange leaves as autumn claims the isle. “Though I will be in no hurry to return here, once this ordeal is over.”

“Do many vampires live here?” She asks, somewhat curiously.

“Not many. The folk around here are more superstitious than most, making it harder to conceal our identities. And they’re also very fierce.”

“When you put it like that…” She leans against the stern of the ship, watching seagulls wheel over the waves. "...I don’t think I’d much like to come here again. First the Wild Hunt, now this. I think it shall be a long time before we return willingly to Skellige.”

Ciri is now too far away to see, a speck on the harbour getting further and further away. Yennefer’s own face is blank, inscrutable.

Regis senses he should probably leave her in peace. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would welcome any attempt at a therapeutic talk about her feelings.

“I’ll go see how Ameer is faring.”

“Yes. Good idea.”

He finds Ameer with his back stubbornly to the Isle, refusing to even look at it. Though bundled up in warm clothes and the raven feather cloak, he shivers in the strong ocean winds. And he’s looking quite unwell.

“Are you all right, Ameer?” Regis approaches him. “You look rather ill.”

He glares at Regis. “I am fine.”

“Are you used to travelling on a ship?”

“I said, I am –” he clamps his hand over his mouth. Regis takes it as a cue to go and find a bucket, which Ameer then vomits into.

“…Ack!” He wipes his mouth miserably. It seems even a mighty species like the aguaras can still be laid low by sea sickness, Regis muses.

“Would you like me to go get Yennefer?”

“No!” Ameer says quickly. “…No. Do not bother worrying –”

He throws up into the bucket again. Ah, perhaps he’s embarrassed; doesn’t want an old friend to see him like this.

“I’ll stay with you, then. You’ll get used to it, soon.”

He doesn’t, though. The weather gets stormier, and all the passengers are driven below deck. Nothing to be worried about, and the captain seems entirely at ease, but the way the ship rolls up and down on the waves makes Ameer even more sick.

Regis spends the entire time patting his back and emptying the bucket. It’s not exactly a pleasant job, but one he undertakes nonetheless. He tries to give him some ginger to reduce the nausea, but it only settles his stomach a little.

At first, Yennefer tries to approach them, looking concerned.

“Ameer, are you quite all right?” She unfortunately enters their chambers when he’s in the middle of throwing up into the bucket.

Ameer can’t even raise his head to look up at her, so Regis answers for him. “Never fear. I’ll deal with this. You should continue your reading; do more research on the poison before we reach Novigrad.”

She looks like she might protest, so he matches her gaze and shakes his head urgently. Looking down at the powerful aguara being sick into a wooden bucket, the pieces click into place in her mind.

“Well, if you have everything under control, I’ll take my leave. Call me if you need anything.”

Eventually, Ameer’s nausea subsides enough to allow him to sleep in short bursts, more out of exhaustion than anything. In the safety of their room on the ship, he’s taken the cloak off. His fox-like ears, sandy in colour, twitch in his sleep.

The rocking of the ship doesn’t bother Regis at all, or make him even the slightest bit nauseous. If he was human, he wonders if he’d be feeling ill, too. But he feels nothing, except that horrible loneliness again.

The medallion shines dully in the light of the room.

Regis looks at Ameer. Asleep. Then he clears his voice, and speaks quietly.

“Geralt. Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Just the creaking of wood and the crashing of waves outside.

He swallows, and speaks again. “Geralt…If you can hear me, I’m sorry. That I didn’t arrive sooner. I promise I’ll do everything in my power to help you. I won’t let you die.”

Still nothing.

Regis sighs, rubbing his forehead. Instantly, he feels foolish. What is he doing, talking to a chunk of silver as if it might answer him back? Even if Geralt was somehow conscious in there, there’d be no way for him to communicate with him.

With no warning, Ameer sits up in bed, gasping. Regis gets ready to grab the bucket, but then realises he doesn’t look sick. He’s hyperventilating, gasping for breath and shaking like a leaf.

“Ameer? Are you alright?” Regis touches him gently on the shoulder – and is hit hard in the face for his troubles.

“Ahh!” Ameer pushes him away. He begins shouting something in Ofieri, unaware of where he is and what’s going on.

“Ameer, it’s Regis!”

Finally, Ameer stops shouting. He stares at Regis, still gasping for air. When he realises what’s just happened, his face goes red and he stares at the floor.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“Leave.” His voice is angry, humiliated.

“Ameer –”

“Please. Leave me.”

Sighing, Regis gets up and walks to the door. His face hurts – he’d heard that Fox Mothers are much stronger than they look, but he didn’t realise how strong. The pain will subside in a few moments, but any normal human would be left with a very nasty bruise on their face, maybe even a broken cheek bone.

He stops when he reaches the door, though. Despite his pain, something akin to pity or sympathy stops him from leaving. He looks back at Ameer.

“The last time you were on a ship, you were being taken to Skellige, weren’t you?” To face a year of miserable, wicked enslavement.

“I do not want to talk about it.” Ameer says through gritted teeth.

Regis holds up his hands. “Fine, I won’t ask anymore. But I’ll tell you this. Just because beings like you and I are stronger than humans – infinitely so – doesn’t mean we can never be weakened.”

Ameer looks at him with a dry expression. “That is easy for you to say. You are a higher vampire. Nothing can harm you.”

“That’s not true.” He leans against the door frame. “While searching for Geralt’s daughter, we ran into a sorcerer. A very powerful one. So powerful, in fact, he even had the means to dispose of a vampire like me. I was melted quite spectacularly into the column of his castle, put into a state well beyond the means of my regeneration.” The memory is a terrible one, of immense pain and fear. “Geralt thought I was dead. Everyone did. But I was found by another vampire, who painstakingly brought me back to the realm of the living. It was a laborious process. I was completely dependent on his care. For the first year, I couldn’t even walk by myself. It was the very definition of weakness.”

“…What is your friend called?”

“His name was Dettlaff.”

His use of the past tense is clue enough for Ameer, who doesn’t question further. For that, Regis is thankful. These are painful memories, too. He dislikes talking about Dettlaff, even thinking about him. The grief is still too raw, too potent for him to handle right now. He cannot be thinking about the death of a friend, of one bound to him by blood, when another friend is at death’s door.

“Don’t feel shame. I can’t claim to know what you’ve been through, but I can guess it was cruel and humiliating. You shouldn’t feel ashamed for moments of weakness after such an ordeal.”

Ameer sighs, and looks away from him. “…I do not want Yennefer to worry. But, you...” he plays with the wolf medallion in his hands. “…You seem to understand.”

“Would you like me to stay?”

Ameer looks taken aback. “…You would be willing to stay?”

“Why ever not?”

“I hit you in the face. Very hard.”

“Well, you were startled. It’s understandable.”

“But…”

Regis sits back down beside him, and places his hand carefully on his shoulder. “I’d like us to be friends, Ameer.”

Ameer watches him with wide, surprised eyes. “You do?”

“Yes. And friends don’t abandon each other in their times of need. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ameer smiles wryly. “I do not think they hit each other on the face.”

Regis waves his hand. “Oh, never mind that. It was an accident, really. Now, would you like me to stay?”

Ameer hesitates for a long time. Eventually, he nods.

“…Yes, please.”

And so, Regis stays with Ameer for the rest of the night, easing his sea sickness and his intermittent nightmares. Somehow, it staves off the loneliness. A little bit.

——

It’s a relief to land at Novigrad.

By the time they arrive, night has fallen on the free city. The streets are almost bare of civilians, with only the occasional drunk ambling down the harbour, singing crude songs. But the streets aren’t _empty;_ instead of civilians, soldiers donned in black armour patrol up and down, painted suns emblazoned on their chests.

“Novigrad. It’s been a long time since I last visited here.” Yennefer slowly walks down the gangplank. Her face is taut and solemn.

Regis follows her, Ameer clinging weakly to his arm. Another dose of ginger has seemed to help his sea sickness.

“When was that?”

“When Radovid was still alive.”

So, when her colleagues and old friends were being ruthlessly hunted and barbarically executed all throughout the city. No wonder she looks so tense. He isn’t particularly keen to be in any large city like this, and will have to take care to avoid dogs, but her unease is entirely more personal than his.

She says nothing on the matter, though. “Dandelion has an inn here.”

“Really? I had no idea.” Though, he thinks with amusement, it seems very much like something Dandelion would do.

“And somehow, it actually functions properly.” She says dryly. “We can stay there for the night, start looking for this scarred man tomorrow.”

“In the meantime, I’ll have the ravens search the city. If our culprit is still here, we’ll know.”

Regis scans the harbour for one of the birds, and spies one sitting on a low stone wall, preening itself. There isn’t anyone nearby, so he walks over to it. Upon seeing him, it begins to hop excitedly on the wall.

He holds out his arm, and it perches on his forearm.

_ Vampire! New! _

_I need you to look for someone for me. _

_Who? Who?_

_A man with brown hair and a scar on his forehead. _

The raven cocks its head. _No see man._

_Spread the word to your friends. If you see him, or if anyone knows anything, tell me. I will be with a man called Dandelion. _

_Singing man? Brown hair singing man with singing woman and dwarf?_

_Yes. _He doesn’t know who this singing woman is, but he guesses the dwarf must be Zoltan.

At this, the raven begins to hop around excitedly, flapping its wings. _Exciting! Exciting! Murder! Soldiers! Come see! Come see! _

_Murder?_

_Singing man! Come see!_ The raven flies up, wheels around Regis, and begins to fly towards the centre of the town.

“Any luck?” Yennefer calls over.

“We need to follow it.” He’s very uneasy about the garbled message from the raven. Immediately, his mind jumps to the worst conclusion. He quickly tries to snuff out the unpleasant thought.

Together, they follow the raven, which waits for them impatiently on roof tops and shop signs while they catch up before flying off again. He isn’t quite sure where it’s leading him – it’s been a long time since he’s been here – but he has no time to puzzle out where they are, or how the city has changed.

“Has it found the man?” Ameer asks. Every house they pass he stares at inquisitively, before Yennefer drags him along.

“No. But I fear something bad may have happened.”

Finally, the raven circles in front of an inn, cawing.

_See? See?_

A large group of people have gathered outside the inn, which is dubbed ‘The Chameleon.’ The lights are still on inside, and through the windows he can see a crowd of people talking in excitement.

“This is Dandelion’s inn.” Yennefer says in surprise. “What’s going on here?”

Suddenly, the doors burst open. Two Nilfgaardian soldiers drag out a familiar brown haired dwarf, who struggles in vain against their grasp.

“I’m innocent! I tell you! This is a set up!”

Neither soldier pay him any credence. Another two soldiers exit – this time bringing with them a very prim and overly confident bard.

“Now, now, I’m sure we can settle this misunderstanding in a civil way.” His voice is far too relaxed and grandiose considering his wrists are shackled.

“What’s going on?” Regis asks the nearest member of the crowd – a brunette woman with a nasty ailment on her neck.

“The owners of the inn are being arrested. A local shop keeper was murdered this morning. It seems the soldiers think that they killed him.” She tells him, her accent Nilfgaardian rather than that of a northerner.

“Oh dear.”

Yennefer sighs in frustration, and steps forwards.

“Excuse me!” She addresses one of the soldiers. “Could you please explain what’s going on?”

“Yennefer!” Dandelion exclaims. “How lovely to see you! Never fear, I have everything under control.”

“Dandelion, you’re being arrested.” She says bluntly.

“And all will be well, when these gentlemen realise they’ve made a mistake and apologise for interrupting our performance.”

One of the soldiers looks to Yennefer. “You know this man?”

“…Yes.” It’s almost as if admitting this causes her pain. “The dwarf, too.”

“You’re looking well, lass!” Zoltan calls out to her. “Wish I could say the same 'bout myself, but these dickheads seem to think we bumped off poor Parviz this morning!”

“Think? We know.” The soldier turns to Yennefer. “We got a tip. Found evidence in their room. I’ll give you some advice: make your farewells with them, help them tie up any loose ends. Unlike the witch hunters, we like _real _law and decorum. And murderers are not let off lightly.”

“This is a set up!” The door swings open, and a blonde woman stands in the entrance, being restrained by two soldiers. “They’ve been framed! This is injustice!”

“Don’t worry, Priscilla!” Dandelion calls to her as he’s dragged away by the soldiers. “We’ll figure something out! Take good care of the Chameleon!”

“All right, out of the way!” The soldiers drag away Dandelion and Zoltan, and the crowd outside begins to dwindle now the excitement is over.

“Well.” Regis sighs. “That is not how I was hoping my first meeting with Dandelion and Zoltan since my regeneration would go.”

Yennefer shakes her head. “I swear, that bard will be the death of us.”


	8. Worrying News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there!
> 
> For those who are wondering, I've planned out this story, and I estimate that it could easily be at least 50 chapters long! I've noticed that some people on ao3 like to put stories into a collection of works. I was just going to have this be one very long story, but if people would prefer the story be split up into multiple shorter works, please let me know! I am interested to see how people feel about this, and how people would feel if the story was a single long one.

_“_ _These scars long have yearned for your tender caress_

_ To bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own_

_ Rend my heart open, then your love profess_

_A winding, weaving fate to which we both atone_

_ You flee my dream come the morning _

_Your scent - berries tart, lilac sweet _

_To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy _

_Of violet eyes, glistening as you weep” – The Wolven Storm, sung by Priscilla_

The stars hang dimly in the night sky, obscured by smog and smoke, as the crowds outside the Chameleon begin to disperse.

“Yennefer, is that you?” The blonde woman peers through the dark. She wears red and green, a feathered cap on her head, and a pretty green crystal strung on a cord around her neck.

When Yennefer steps forwards into the light, the woman beams.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg!” She steps out to greet her. “What a delight it is to see you again!”

“Likewise, Priscilla. A pleasure to see you well and recovering.” Yennefer turns to Regis. “Regis, this is Priscilla, a friend of ours who helped us locate Ciri a few years ago.”

“Regis?” Priscilla stares at him in shock. “Dandelion told me you were dead!” She shakes his hand warmly. “Wonderful to meet a legend like yourself – a higher vampire, no less!”

“It seems Dandelion was not as tight lipped about my identity as I’d have hoped,” Regis smiles, “but it is an absolute pleasure to meet you, nonetheless.”

“And this is Ameer.” Yennefer pushes him forwards gently. “A friend of mine from Ofier.”

“Goodness, you’ve come from a long way away! Lovely to meet you!” She says it so genuinely as she greets him, even Ameer can’t help but smile.

“Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation. It is very nice to meet you.”

“Do come in, out of the cold!” She ushers them into the warmth of the inn. “I just have something to take care of, and then I’ll be with you.”

Inside, the inn is filled with rather disgruntled customers – Dandelion mentioned being interrupted in the middle of a performance before being dragged away by the Nilfgaardian soldiers.

“I apologise, all of you.” Priscilla steps up on the stage. She picks up her lute, and sits on a stool. “I know you were promised a performance with the daring bard Dandelion and the graceful singer Callonetta, but it seems…unexpected circumstances have changed our plans.”

“What’s happening?” One of the audience members shouts out. “Did Dandelion kill Parviz?”

Priscilla hushes the murmurs. “No, Dandelion has not killed anyone. There’s just been a misunderstanding, is all. As for your show,” she strums the cords, “I’m afraid it will be just me tonight, but I will try my best.”

At this, not a single person complains.

She begins to sing, her voice slightly husky as it carries out across the room. Instantly, everyone is captivated.

She sings about a search, the desperate search of a father a across the continent for his partner and daughter, and their joyful reunion as a family. Her voice summons images of icy wraiths, the wrath of the Aen Elle, to the minds of her audience. She weaves a tapestry of grief, a fallen witcher burning on a funeral pyre. And when she sings of the End Times, the great battle on Skellige, the audience sees Zireael climb the tower to do mighty battle with the White Frost, fuelled by the love of her parents.

It’s certainly a beautiful song, and Priscilla is a very talented musician. Tears had been shed in the audience. Regis glances at Yennefer, who looks a little embarrassed at her life being displayed in such a way. Ameer claps along with the audience, but stops when he sees Yennefer’s face.

“Did you not like the song?” He asks.

“No, no, it was…lovely.”

“Perhaps you found it rather…personal?” Regis suggests, which earns him a glare.

When Ameer realises, he smiles mischievously. “Yennefer, this song was about you and Geralt?”

“Perhaps.”

“Very interesting! You have been doing many things since we last saw each other. I wonder what other songs this woman knows…”

“Don’t even think about it.”

When the crowd finally disperses, and the audience either leaves or retires to their rooms, Priscilla beckons them over to an empty table.

“I apologise for the wait. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

“Priscilla, your song was very beautiful.” Ameer says with a wide smile, ignoring Yennefer’s hard stare.

“Thank you. Though, my songs are only as good as my source material. And what an interesting life you have led, Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

Yennefer allows this compliment. “Thank you, Priscilla. We’re rather tired from the journey. May we stay here for the night?”

“Of course. And I’ll get the cook to prepare some food before he goes home. Caetano!” She shouts over to a large and burly man. “Could you whip up something before you go?”

The man grunts. He’s still wiping away tears from Priscilla’s performance.

Priscilla sits down at the table. “Now, before we address the most obvious topic of conversation,” she clearly means Dandelion and Zoltan’s arrest, “What brings you here, to Novigrad?”

The three of them look at each other. Regis sits down at the table opposite her.

“…You know Geralt, don’t you?”

“I do. We’ve helped each other out before. Lovely man – surprisingly good actor. Why?”

Regis sighs. He glances at Yennefer, who stands at the side, arms crossed and staring down at the floor.

“…He was poisoned in Skellige, almost a week ago. Even with all of our combined knowledge and resources, we couldn’t figure out the poison’s identity. He’s…Well. He’s dying.” The words feel foul coming from his lips. They leave a sickening taste in his mouth.

Priscilla puts her hands over her mouth. “Gods…how terrible!”

“His poison was supplied by a man from the continent. Right now, finding him is our only chance of figuring out what kind of poison was used on Geralt. And he was thought to be headed for this city.”

“And Geralt? Where is he? How’s his condition?”

Regis glances at Yennefer, who nods. Priscilla is trust worthy, it seems.

Regis gestures to Ameer, who had been sidling closer to the fire place, to come and sit at the table.

“Ameer…has magic capabilities. We were able to use a spell called Scaradh –”

“Scaradh? The soul extracting spell?”

“Goodness, you’re very knowledgeable.” Regis says, surprised she knows such an obscure spell.

She shrugs. “Plenty of ballads about brave heroes placing their dying beloved’s soul in their sword and going on a quest to save them. Most just don’t realise that there’s some truth behind such stories. And I like to do my research.”

“Hm. You’re a very conscientious artist. I understand why you’re so popular.”

“Thank you.” She peers at Ameer. “So, Geralt’s soul is in a sword now?”

“Not a sword. By no means should the soul holder be used in combat. That could end…very badly.” Ameer touches the medallion. “He is in here.”

“Goodness! His soul is in that tiny thing?” She points at the silver wolf. “He’s…He’s right here, really?”

“In a way, yes.” Ameer confirms. “For no more than two months, though.”

Priscilla grabs his arms and leans across the table, her head at his chest. “Geralt!” She shouts at the medallion, startling Ameer. “Can you hear me?”

Regis almost smiles. And to think, he felt so foolish. “I’m afraid there’s no communicating with him, my dear. The soul seems to be in a…static condition. Asleep.”

Disappointed, she lets go. “Worth a try, I suppose. Now, tell me more about the one who poisoned Geralt. Perhaps someone might’ve seen them, whoever they are.”

Yennefer reaches into her pockets and pulls out a folded piece of parchment. She spreads it out and passes it to Priscilla, who studies it carefully.

“This is the man.”

Priscilla stares down at the parchment, then up at Yennefer with wide eyes. “This is Tye.”

Yennefer and Regis exchange a shocked stare. Quickly and urgently, Yennefer sits down.

“Tye? That’s his name? Where is he? Tell us more!”

However, Priscilla shakes her head. “He was a guest here, but he left quite promptly early this morning. I’ve no idea where to.”

Yennefer curses quietly and viciously under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Regis puts his head in his hands, sighing deeply. To think, Geralt’s poisoner – his attempted murderer – was right here. Sitting under the very same roof, eating in the very same hall, probably listening to the very same song that they had heard this evening.

And they’ve missed him. By a single day. By mere _hours_.

Regis doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh manically from the sheer frustration of it all, or spit every bloody curse word he knows.

“…Why did he leave?” Ameer asks softly, the least affected by this bitter blow. “Please, tell me all that you know about him.”

Priscilla nods. “Tye…Actually, I doubt that’s his real name. When I asked, he hesitated for a moment too long before introducing himself. I suspect it’s an alias. Anyway, he arrived here roughly…a week ago, I think, from Skellige.” She points at the drawing. “Looked exactly like this, except he wore a strip of red cloth around his forehead. I assume it’s to hide that scar there.”

“Most likely.” Ameer agrees.

“He kept to himself most of the time. Seemed an odd fellow. Though, one evening he got quite drunk – one glass of wine went straight to his head. He played gwent with Zoltan, and practically interrogated Dandelion about the history and magic of the area. I’ve no notion why, but he seemed very eager to learn as much as possible.”

“Magic and history…What do you mean?”

“Sorry, I didn’t listen in much on their conversations. Dandelion told me about it afterwards, but I tend to pay little attention to the various gwent games and drunk conversations that go on here. They happen a lot.”

“What happened then?”

She shakes her head. “After that, he went back to being very withdrawn again. And early this morning, he left very quickly. Urgently, even. And when the Nilfgaardian soldiers came, they searched his room as well. It seems your poisoner is a suspect to poor Parviz’s murder, too.”

The same murder that Dandelion and Zoltan have been arrested for. Regis composes himself, raises his head and sits up straight.

“This murder…At first I thought it was simply bad luck of Dandelion’s.” He says.

“Bad luck? More like daily routine. Did you know he was imprisoned by witch hunters and almost executed a few years ago? Trouble is his favourite pastime besides poetry writing.” Yennefer says dryly. At least her humour has returned after that brief moment of frustration.

“That, I can agree with.” Regis seconds her opinion. “Our musical friend certainly has a habit of getting himself into all sorts of misfortune. But if this ‘Tye’ was also a suspect in the murder, and left the morning that the victim’s body was found…”

“You think they’re connected.” Yennefer finishes.

“It would be foolish to pre-emptively rule out the possibility.”

“Hm. I suppose you’re right.” She looks at Priscilla. “I hate to interrogate you like this, but please, tell us more about what happened.”

Priscilla smiles. “It’s no problem at all. I’d very much like to see this poisoner brought to justice – and Dandelion and Zoltan be freed from prison. They can be reckless and slightly idiotic at times, but they’re no murderers.”

The candles burn gently at the table, emitting a warm light as Priscilla talks.

“Parviz was a shop keeper. Owner of ‘Exotic Treasures’, a few streets down from here. Dealt with antiques and trinkets from all across the world. In fact,” she gestures to Ameer, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you recognised some of his ware as being Ofieri in origin.”

Regis looks at the crystal hanging from her neck. It shimmers, catching the light of the candles and casting shades of emerald and turquoise onto the table.

“Is that where your necklace is from?” He asks.

Priscilla smiles and shakes her head. “I hate to admit it, but it’s actually from his rival, ‘Barney’s Jewellery Emporium.’” She touches the crystal gently. “They’re quite fashionable right now. So much so, it seems Parviz’s shop was suffering as a result. He didn’t have nearly as many customers as Barney’s Jewellery Emporium. It was losing more money than it could pay back debts, that sort of thing, getting in trouble with the loan sharks. Some of his items ended up causing complaints, too. I think someone got a rash from one of his necklaces, or so I heard.”

“All the symptoms of a sick and dying business.”

“Well, this morning, his body was found. Stabbed to death. There were believed to be at least two suspects involved, maybe more. The Nilfgaardians were quite vague on the details, so that’s all I know. But then this evening, they stormed into our inn, claiming that Dandelion and Zoltan had been in league with Tye, conspired to kill Parviz together to cut down on competition. They went into the bedrooms, and came back with bloodied cloth and a dagger. Evidence that someone must have planted.” She says firmly. “By then, Tye was long gone.”

Regis strokes his chin in thought. “I must say, considering what we already know about this Tye, it’s becoming more and more likely that he was involved in this murder. But the Nilfgaardians clearly thought there were more than one person involved. We could be looking at an accomplice, too.”

“Well, maybe if you find this accomplice, they’ll know where Tye went.” Priscilla suggests. “And at the same time, we’ll prove that Dandelion and Zoltan are innocent!”

“It certainly would be killing two birds with one stone, wouldn’t it?”

Ameer considers this. “It may be difficult, but I do not see how else we will learn where Tye went.”

Yennefer nods, but Regis can’t help but notice she doesn’t look convinced. Even when the food arrives and they eat, she barely says a word, deep in thought. What’s on her mind? He tries to ask, but she insists she’s fine. Perhaps she doesn’t want to say it in front of Priscilla.

In fact, it’s only when they’ve retired to their chambers that Yennefer finally speaks.

The bedrooms that Priscilla has given them are surprisingly fancy, with lush bed throws, tasteful paintings, bright flowers in vases and stained-glass windows. Dandelion and Zoltan certainly have done well for themselves, Regis thinks. It’s been decided that he and Ameer will sleep in one room, and Yennefer in the other.

However, sleep is clearly not on Yennefer’s mind. She comes immediately to their room, shutting the door securely and instantly launching into conversation.

“Listen, I’m not sure about this plan.” She confesses, pacing up and down the room.

Ameer watches her from the bed, sitting cross legged on the fine duvet. He’s looking a little better. Instead of refusing to eat, making excuses and pretending to not be hungry, he attempted to eat the cook’s roast chicken stuffed with hazelnuts, carrots and onions with parsnips and peas on the side. Unfortunately, owing to his terrible sea sickness only hours before, Ameer was unable to eat much. At least he actually tried this time. That’s certainly an improvement.

“What is wrong, Yennefer?” Ameer asks, cocking his head. “Why do you not like this plan?”

“It’s going to take too much time. Yes, this poisoner is ahead of us, but he’s only _one day_ ahead – if that. He only left this morning; for all we know, he could still be on the outskirts of the city. We can’t waste time trying to solve this when he could be anywhere.”

“I appreciate your urgency all too well, Yennefer. But I don’t know how else we’re to find the information that we need.” The ravens haven’t come back with any information.

“There’s an oneiromancer in the city by the name of Corinne Tilly – a good one, she’s helped us before. She might be able to help us again.”

“And what of Dandelion and Zoltan?”

“We break them out. Between you – a higher vampire who can turn to smoke and fit through any crack – and Ameer with his illusions, it shouldn’t be difficult.”

Now it’s Regis’s turn to be unsure. “I’m not so certain it would be as easy as you think. Nilfgaardians aren’t as easy to dupe as witch hunters.”

“With the right planning, we’ll be able to pull it off. I know Nilfgaardians don’t believe in vampires, and they’ve probably not even heard of Fox Mothers.”

However, neither party is clearly convinced of the other’s point of view. Regis hopes this doesn’t become an argument.

Ameer looks between them, then gets off the bed and walks forwards. “Both plans have merit. But we are still lacking information. We should speak to this…Dandelion and Zoltan. They may also know about Tye. Regis and I should go visit them. Yennefer should speak to the Dream Dancer.” Is that the Ofieri term for oneiromancer? “If she is talented, she may be able to provide us with a lot of information. If we still have no new information, we should consider our plan of action again.”

Regis nods. “Fine, I see no problem with this.”

“Nor I.” Yennefer dons her own cloak. “I’ll go visit her right away. Let’s meet at the Hierarch’s Square when we’re done.”

\----

The night is much milder than they were in Skellige as Regis and Ameer travel to the Nilfgaardian barracks where Dandelion and Zoltan are supposedly being held, according to Priscilla. Still, Ameer is shivering, and wraps his cloak more tightly around himself. He leans into Regis, wishing to steal whatever heat he can from him.

“These northern kingdoms…how does anything grow in such coldness?” He mutters.

“I’m certain if any northerner went to Ofier unprepared, they’d most likely perish in the heat.” Regis muses. “Both are adapted for such extreme climates, it’s no wonder they struggle in any other weather and temperature.”

As they walk through the streets, they pass few people, the majority being Nilfgaardian soldiers. A couple of drunks barge past them, but Regis is struck by how empty the streets are. He remembers many more rabble rousers, more drunks, pick pockets trying to take advantage of said drunks. He wonders if the Nilfgaardian occupation has anything to do with it.

“Does Yennefer like this city?” Ameer asks suddenly.

“Why do you ask that?”

“She seemed…pensive when we left the boat. I was no longer throwing up, so I noticed.” He says this last part with a wry expression.

“Hm. You could say…this city has had a difficult history, and a rather bloody one, too.” Geralt mentioned the terrible persecutions that happened while Regis was still recovering. He didn’t say much, didn’t want to talk about it, and that fact alone told Regis all he needed to know. “I’m certain such events are still present in Yennefer’s mind.”

“Like myself and Skellige?”

“Similar to that, yes. Though,” he adds as an afterthought, “don’t tell her that I told you. I can’t imagine Yennefer would be pleased.”

“I understand. And I hope you will not tell her about my…state on the boat?”

“Of course not.” Ironically, they’re both exactly the same – too proud to tell the other one of their troubles.

“…Thank you. For helping with my sea sickness back there.” Ameer says hesitantly. “I know it must have looked pitiful –”

“Don’t mention it. Really.” Regis reassures him. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“Well, I will anyway. Thank you.”

“In that case, you’re very welcome.”

When they reach the barracks near Temple Island, they’re immediately halted by two Nilfgaardian soldiers.

“Halt!” One marches forwards and holds up his hand. “This area is prohibited to civilians!”

“E’er y glòir.” Regis greets him. “Que suecc’s_?_”

At this, the soldier looks surprised, and a little impressed. “You speak my language, and your accent is very good, yet you do not look Nilfgaardian.”

“I’ve spent time in your home country. The suspects in the Parviz murder case – are they here?”

“You must come back tomorrow morning.” The other soldier steps forwards, not taken in by Regis’s use of the Nilfgaardian dialect. “No visitors this late at night.”

Now, Ameer steps forwards, though he seems reluctant to leave Regis – his portable heat source – behind. He hands them a scroll of paper with a red wax seal, one he certainly wasn’t carrying a moment ago. As the two soldiers pour over it, Regis can see him smirking, though he tries to hide it.

“…I see. By all means, head inside.” The two soldiers step aside to let them in. “They’re being held in the temporary cells, to be transported to Oxenfurt tomorrow.”

“I thank you for your co-operation.” He walks into the barracks confidently. Regis catches up with him.

“Those powers certainly are useful, aren’t they?”

Ameer instantly leans into him again. “That was but a simple illusion. Even children could do something that easy. Humans have very primitive senses, and they do not question authority. It makes them quite easy to trick.”

Honestly, it makes Regis wonder how on earth someone with such a mastery over illusions could have been spotted and imprisoned in the first place, but he knows better than to bring it up now.

They find their way to the temporary cells quite easily, with Ameer showing his illusory paper to any soldier who questions their presence. From behind bars, he can see Dandelion and Zoltan – both unharmed – bickering with the soldier who guards them.

“This is ridiculous. What reason would we have to kill Parviz?” Dandelion complains.

“He was competition. Simple.” The guard tiredly replies.

“Aye, which would be fine…If we were in the bloody antique business!” Zoltan shouts. “In case you thick Nilfgaardians haven’t notice, we run an inn. Why would we give a single shite about a ploughin’ antiques shop?”

“Piemellikkers…” the guard mutters under his breath. When he sees Regis and Ameer approaching, he makes to stop them until Ameer flashes his paper.

“We wish to speak to the prisoners.” Regis tells him.

The guard nods, and steps aside, probably thankful for the opportunity to have a brief moment of peace.

Behind the bars, Dandelion stares with his mouth agape. “…Regis? Is that you?”

“Indeed it is, my friend.” Regis smiles. “It’s good to see you again, though I wish it were in better circumstances. And you too, Zoltan. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Zoltan scratches his head, bewildered. “Am I hallucinating, Dandelion, or is that _Regis_ alive and in the flesh talking to us?”

Still shocked, Dandelion pushes his hand through the bars and grabs Regis’s arm, gripping it firmly.

“…No hallucinations, it seems.” He looks up with a grin. “How can this be?”

“Geralt told me you were killed quite thoroughly.” Zoltan crosses his arms. “Shame I wasn’t there to help bump off the bastard, but how can you be here?”

“Let’s say a friend helped me recover.” Regis leaves it at that.

“And who’s this?” Dandelion gestures to Ameer.

“Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation. My name is Ameer.” He introduces himself.

“Ah, you’re from Ofier?” Dandelion immediately recognises the greeting. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’d say the same, but I’d be hard pressed to say it’s nice.” Zoltan says bitterly. “If we’d met in the comfort of the inn, or over a bottle of Mahakam spirit, then yes. But here?” He gestures to his prison.

“Yes, we’d heard of your predicament. We’d like to help you, if we can. In fact, as it happens, we’re very interested in your supposed co-conspirator.”

“You mean Tye?” Zoltan sighs. “He left shortly before the body was found. Can’t help but feel the bugger was responsible for it.”

“We think the same, though he may have had help. Please, tell us what you know about him.”

Dandelion frowns. “He was a weird guy, I’ll tell you that. Constantly wearing a dirty red cloth around his forehead.”

“To hide a scar.” Ameer tells him. “From people like us, perhaps.”

“A scar…huh. I just thought maybe he got a distasteful tattoo.” Dandelion muses. “No way to tell – most of the time he hid himself in his bedroom, barely spoke to anyone. Even mine and Priscilla’s gorgeous performances weren’t enough to entice him out of his room.”

At this, Zoltan laughs. “Well, I had something better. Booze and gwent.”

Dandelion throws him a look, but says, “yes, that did get him to talk more. One evening, he got very drunk and started talking non-stop. He was asking a lot about magic.”

“Magic? How so?” Regis asks.

Dandelion frowns. “He really wanted to know about protective magic. Things to mask his presence. And he wanted to know all the options. Old artefacts, sites of holy magic, sorcerers and sorceresses in the city who might help him create a spell to hide his presence. And when we finished talking about Novigrad, he asked about all of Redania, then Temeria.”

“Masking magic? Why did he want that?”

“I don’t know.” Then he says, “Maybe it was to hide from you? Vampires are notorious trackers, after all.”

“Vampire? What’re you blabbering about, Dandelion?” Zoltan laughs nervously, and makes not so subtle gestures to Ameer. “Don’t worry, lad, Dandelion doesn’t know what he’s talking about!”

“Never fear, Zoltan. Ameer already knows of my vampire status. Though, thank you for your consideration and caution.”

Zoltan breathes out in relief, and then glares at Dandelion. “Shame someone else here doesn’t have the same consideration…”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Priscilla better not make a song about it.”

“She wouldn’t!”

“Back to the matter at hand,” Regis interjects, “did he specifically mention either me, Yennefer or Ameer?” The possibility Tye was seeking to hide from Regis is worrying; does he know that Regis is searching for him? And does he know that Regis is a vampire?

“No, but if you and Yennefer are looking for him, I can’t think of anyone else he’d want to hide from.” Then he frowns, and addresses Ameer. “Are you magical?”

“I can use magic.” Ameer says simply.

“Are you a vampire, too?”

“No.” He lowers his hood, showing them his elf ears – not fox ears, thankfully.

“Ah, an elf. Don’t worry too much about concealing your ears, lad.” Zoltan tells him. “Things have considerably improved over these last four years, since Radovid’s death. That’s not to say there aren’t still racist pricks about, but you’ll not be in any danger this time.”

Ameer nods, though he’s clearly confused about what Zoltan is talking about. He probably doesn’t know about the race riots in Novigrad four years ago.

“Did Tye show any interest in your suggestions?”

“Hmmm…” Dandelion thinks about it. “I mean, I don’t have a great knowledge about masking magic, so I doubt I was much help. I did mention Parviz, though. The guy has so many contraptions from so many places – even if half of them are fake – I’d have been surprised if he didn’t have _something_ that could help. After that, he went back to being his usual weird and quiet self. Three days later, he up and left without a word. Then this evening, we were arrested, and that brings you up to speed.”

“Did he mention where he might be going next?”

“Not at all.”

Damn it. Well, it would’ve been too good to be true if they had known.

Ameer looks around the guard camp. “Should we break them out now?” He asks Regis.

“Woah, woah! What do you mean, break out?” Dandelion demands. “You can’t do that!”

“Dandelion, what’re you playing at?” Zoltan argues back, then turns to Ameer. “Ignore him. Please, by all means, break us out.”

“No! I’m not living as a fugitive with a bounty on my head!” He looks imploringly at Regis. “You’re smarter than the two of us put together, surely you can _figure out _who helped Tye kill Parviz?”

“Dandelion, don’t be ridiculous. We could be hanged for this – we will be hanged for this!”

“Please listen. I’ve worked so hard with that inn. I’m sick of a life of constant travel, never having stability or a steady finance! I’ve got seven degrees and I was a professor at Oxenfurt Academy before travelling with Geralt, I don’t want to be reduced to the lowly life of a fugitive! I’m not as young as I used to be, and I’m not immortal like you! I’ve found something that can provide me stability, while still doing the thing that I love – I’m not willing to throw it all away and live in constant fear of these Nilfgaardian pricks hunting me down!” He folds his arms and turns away defiantly. “And where’s Geralt? He’d happily help me out!”

Regis sighs. Breaking the news in prison…Not the best environment.

“Dandelion…Geralt has been poisoned.”

Dandelion turns back to him, shock and confusion on his face. “What…What do you mean he’s been poisoned? Witchers can’t be…”

“Regardless of his metabolism. He’s very sick. And this man, Tye, is the one who supplied the poison.”

“Gods…” Zoltan spits on the ground. “If I see his ugly mug anywhere here again…”

“We need to find him. And time is of the essence. As much as I regret to say it, we may not have enough time to solve your problem to a satisfactory degree.”

Dandelion sighs, but he nods. “I don’t have a choice, do I? Not if Geralt’s life is on the line. But is there really nothing you can do to help us?”

“It’s too early to say. All I can promise is we will not let the Nilfgaardians execute you.” He pauses. “Of course, we still don’t know where Tye is. And if Yennefer’s lead comes up with nothing…I suppose we’ll have no choice but to investigate ourselves.”

This makes Dandelion’s face light up. “You will? Oh, thank you!”

“But should we find out where Tye is hiding before we figure out this case, then we absolutely need to move on. We’ll break you out, with no complaints. Understood?”

Dandelion bows theatrically. “Of course. And I have no doubt in your abilities.”

“Trust me, there’ll be no complaints from me either way!” Zoltan chuckles.

“We’d best be leaving, before these Nilfgaardian soldiers get tired of our presence.” Ameer’s illusion has worked like a charm, but there’s no point in tempting fate.

“Good to see you again, Regis. Hopefully next time we speak, it’ll be over a glass of wine instead of through prison bars.”

When they leave the Nilfgaardian barracks, Ameer turns to Regis with an expression of confusion on his face.

“You…are friends with that man?” He tries to say it casually, touching the back of his neck as he speaks.

“Yes. Though, I do admit that he can be rather…how should I phrase it…”

They both speak at the same time.

“A little difficult at times.”

“Like a whiny child – yes, a little difficult at times, that is what I said as well.” Ameer quickly backtracks.

However, Regis just laughs. “Yes, that certainly is one way of saying it. But he is not without his merit. Both he and Zoltan are incredibly loyal friends. They’ve followed Geralt through thick and thin, and both accepted me even after learning of my vampiric status. They’re truly good, reliable friends.” His compliments are all genuine. Despite the dire circumstances, he can’t help but feel that delightful joy at seeing old friends for the first time in a while.

Ameer nods. “Ah, I understand. Though…I am worried.” He frowns. “If Tye knows that we are searching for him, and if he also knows you are a vampire – or that I am an aguara – he is far more dangerous than I thought.”

“Yes, it’s troubling.” Regis agrees. “He might not know of our status, but if he did, I’d be rather perturbed if he started spreading our real identities among the local populace.”

Ameer’s face hardens, and he says nothing. Regis can only assume that such events are what led to his capture and enslavement in Skellige.

A raven’s call catches his attention. He sees that a few of them have gathered on top of and around a signpost.

“Oh, ravens.” Ameer seems happy to change the conversation. “Perhaps they have new information.”

“Yes, I was planning to speak to them again.” He approaches the sign post, quickly checking that no one is watching. The largest of the group, a raven with a slightly scuffed beak, lands on his outstretched arm.

_Vampire. Vampire ask questions._ _Want brown hair man with scar. _This one is more solemn, far less excitable than the raven he first encountered in Novigrad.

_Yes, I’m looking for a brown haired man with a scar on his forehead, but he wears a cloth to conceal it._

The raven ruffles its feathers. _Bad man. Bad man hate ravens. Chase ravens away._

_Is he here?!_

_No. Bad man leave. _

_Where?_

_Ravens not know. Ravens stay away from bad man. Stink bad magic._

_What kind of bad magic?_

The raven begins to croak. Regis can’t quite make out what it’s trying to say.

_…Bad smell, make flesh bad, poison smell not poison smell? _He repeats slowly. He has no idea what that means.

The raven hops up Regis’s arm and settles on his shoulder. Regis has to move his head slightly to accommodate it.

_Bad man. Stay away. Do bad things._

_Did he kill the shop keeper? Who was with him?_

_Ravens not know. Ravens stay away from bad man, stay away from poison not poison smell._

Damn it. There goes another potential lead gone. It seems the ravens can’t help him after all.

The raven lightly tugs his earlobe with its beak, almost affectionately. _Ravens like vampire. Stay away from bad man. Bad man dangerous. Bad man know about vampire. _

_He…knows about me?_

_Bad man know vampire and fox friend. Know true form. Bad man hurt vampire and witch lady friend and fox friend and soul friend._

With that final warning, the raven lifts off from Regis’s shoulder. Its flock follows, soaring into the sky and blotting out the stars with their black bodies.

Ameer watches them go, then notices Regis’s unsettled expression.

“Did they have news?”

“No.” He feels incredibly unsettled about what it said. “But it warned me about Tye.”

How worrying.


	9. Novigrad Dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to upload!  
Looking at the feedback people have given me, I've decided that I'll probably split up this story into two or three shorter stories as part of a series. I still need to figure out exactly how that works, so I'll keep you all updated!  
Hope you enjoy the story!

_“Oneiromancy, the magic art deciphering the past and the future as they appear in dreams, is difficult for even a highly trained sorceress to master. Those born with the latent, however, excel at it without any formal education. Such was the case of Corinne Tilly, whose fame as a dreamer, as such diviners are known, had spread far and wide.” – Dandelion on Corinne Tilly._

“Close your eyes. Relax.”

The smell of incense fills the air of the abandoned house, strong and pungently sweet. Beside her, the repetitive sound of needles clacking together begins to start.

Yennefer shifts on the silk bed, trying to summon the mystifying and ever escaping feeling of relaxation. The low light of candles allows her to barely see around the room.

Corinne Tilly sits beside her bed, calmly knitting away. She wears a long-sleeved white blouse with a plunging neckline and a long orange skirt held in place by an ornate sash and green beaded ribbons around her waist. A large and intricate necklace sits on her chest, and hanging even further below it is a glittering turquoise crystal, glowing in the candlelight.

Yennefer hears creaking, and looks to the doorway. A small childlike being with blue skin and blonde, tangled hair watches her with huge, curious eyes. A godling. She does not look away even when Yennefer’s gaze matches with hers, but neither does she step into the room. Instead, she waits by the door frame, playing with a garish pink crystal around her neck. A gift from the oneiromancer, perhaps.

“…Who are you?” Yennefer calls out. The godling takes a step back, but she doesn’t leave.

Corinne lowers her needles and looks to the door frame. “Sarah, what’s the matter?”

“Do you have to do this now?” The godling's voice is identical to that of a child’s. “Can’t we go play instead?”

“I have to do a job for this nice lady. Then we can go play.”

“But I want to play now! I thought you were coming over for a secret sleep over! And this lady will be having nasty dreams!”

“Nasty dreams?” Corinne asks.

“Dreams of scary people! Not fun scary dreams, dreams about nasty people! Nasty people who chase away birds and kick foxes and stink of bad smells!”

“I’ll be but a moment, Sarah. As soon as I help this lady, we can play. Why don’t you set up the tea set for our midnight tea party? We’ll have ever so much fun.”

At this, the godling’s worried face perks up. “Oh yes! I’ll go do that now! That’s much more fun!” All previous unease forgotten, she runs from the door frame, and Yennefer hears her light footsteps pattering on the stairs.

“Sorry for the interruption.

“What did she mean by that?” Yennefer asks.

Corinne turns back to her needles, calmly and methodically knitting. “She seems to know of the man you look for. This scarred man called Tye, she’s spoken of him a few times. It seems he has a bad reputation, by the standards of a godling. Though that’s all she knew – he was mean to the animals, and he smelt bad. She knew nothing of this whole poison business.”

“Smelt bad? Does she mean that literally?”

Corinne smiles. “Who knows? Perhaps we’ll find out for ourselves when you enter the dream.”

“Thank you for this, Corinne. And I’m sorry for waking you up so late at night.” Of course, Yennefer would do it again in a heartbeat, if it meant catching up with the poisoner – she’d do it as many times as needed – but she still feels a little bad about waking the oneiromancer from her sleep.

“Not at all. For someone to come at this hour means the matter must be serious, is what I thought. And this is a complicated matter too. With such limited information, it’ll be harder to seek out this scarred man. We’ll need absolute peace and quiet – why I brought you here. No interruptions or noise from the neighbours or passerbys; they all think this house is haunted. Sarah knows not to interrupt, either. And even with the utmost concentration, I must warn you: you might not get all the information you need. The accuracy of an oneiromancer relies heavily on what I know beforehand – which, in this instance, is little.”

“I know. But even the smallest detail will help.”

Corinne smiles, amused. “Well, I won’t be able to help you at all if you don’t relax. Your mind is troubled, isn’t it?”

“I’m fine.”

“There’s no shame in worrying for your lover and your friends.”

Yennefer purses her lips. Fine, yes, she is worried. Constantly worried. Her lover’s soul hangs in a flimsy piece of silver around the neck of a friend who hides his trauma, all the while travelling with a man who Yennefer doesn’t know and can’t confide with, yet she must carry the guilt of not being able to save him from his violent death. All the while, she misses Ciri terribly, and longs for her to be here too. Yes, there is nothing she can do to help Geralt by worrying. Yes, Ameer will speak to her in his own time, when he is ready. Yes, Regis is trustworthy and has already stated he has no bitterness towards anyone but Vilgefortz for what happened. Yes, Ciri can look after herself and is carrying out the vital task of guarding Geralt’s body.

But reason and emotion are not always complimentary. And when she can’t control those niggling doubts and worries, Yennefer channels those anxieties into frustration and action. Gets up, does something useful, something that will get those anxieties to shut up.

And relaxing is the very opposite of this.

Corinne lights another candle. When it burns, a comforting smell of lavender spreads through the room.

“Take deep, even breathes.” She leans over her, the sparkling crystal hanging over Yennefer’s face, and scatters dried petals over the pillow. Yennefer allows herself to be distracted by the glittering colours, twirling with Corinne’s movement and dancing in the candle light. “Breathe slowly.”

Yennefer complies, allowing the strong incense and fragrant lavender to fill her head, make her slightly woozy, her gaze still on the turquoise crystal.

Now, Corinne places her hand over Yennefer’s eyes and carefully forces them shut. “Now let your mind wander. Let the dream come to you.”

Soon after, she hears the clicking of needles once more. Repetitive, calming, almost hypnotising to listen to. Even with her eyes closed, the colours of the crystal still shimmers in her mind…

And then Yennefer’s walking on a field of crystals. They glow with bioluminescent colours all around her, gentle blues and greens as far as the eye can see, a calming glowing haze in an infinite black.

And in front of her, a long red strip of cloth hovers in the air. Dirtied with blood and sweat, vivid and ugly against the beautiful scene in front of her.

She grabs hold of it instinctively – and grits her teeth as it tightens and burns her hands. She begins to walk, following the strip of burning cloth with pained determination.

But as she walks, a fog begins to descend on the crystal field. Thick, obscuring her vision. She can barely see the red cloth in front of her, though the glow of the crystals just manages to penetrate the fog.

Hovering over the horizon, she sees a knife. Large, ethereal, flickering in and out of view. Blade sharp and dripping with something…not blood. Poison. The blade that poisoned Geralt. Is this dream mocking her?

Up ahead, she can hear talking. She tries to hasten her speed, with great effort; she feels as if she’s walking under water.

“…straight back?”

“No, I need to make some stops along the way.”

Yennefer squints her eyes, trying to see through the fog. With no warning, a figure of an old man in a hooded cloak suddenly appears.

“Where are you going?” It’s Arvid, the treacherous mage from Skellige. She can see him starkly through the fog, standing by a wooden desk covered in notes and flasks.

The one he speaks to, though, is barely visible. “Novigrad. I want to look for something there.” A nervous voice, deliberately devoid of any accent. Yennefer can see his shadow, and nothing else.

“What? What makes you delay your journey?”

“Protection.”

The mage looks solemn, and nods. He waves his hand, and a portal opens up.

“Good luck.”

The scene vanishes into the fog. So he travelled by portal. That’s why Cerys was unable to find him even when she closed the ports.

Again, she continues to follow the red cloth. The crystals crunch under her foot, leaking bright and fluorescent liquid. Up ahead, she can hear arguing. The liquid from the crystals turn a crimson red.

“…You weren’t meant to kill him!”

The shadowy figure paces up and down through the fog, and Yennefer hears broken glass. The only thing she can see on him now is the red cloth around his forehead, and red stains on his hand.

Beside him, a figure comes into view. Not a human, elf, dwarf or halfling. It moves on four legs, sleek and large.

A panther, she realises. The panther snarls, showing white teeth.

“I don’t care! You were supposed to make sure it didn’t come to that! Now the Nilfgaardians will be on our tails!”

The panther growls, and the figure hesitates. “…Fine. I suppose you’re expecting me to do this?”

The fog swirls like waves, and Yennefer must grip tightly to the cloth to stop herself from being blown away. In front of her, the scene changes.

The shadowy figure holds a bloodied cloth and knife. He buries it in a clothes trunk, all the while looking nervously over his shoulder. Yennefer can hear the faint sound of music floating in the air around him, each note beautiful and lively.

He’s planting evidence in the Chameleon, Yennefer realises. Around his neck is a large necklace, which he holds carefully. Silver and intricately decorated with splendid purple stones and glittering blue gems. Yennefer can feel a strong power emanating from it.

Suddenly, the fog begins to swirl again – more forcefully this time. An unseen wind pushes against her. Desperately, she tries to cling onto the red cloth, no matter how much it burns her. But the gale and fog get stronger and stronger. She can’t see anything, hear anything, as the fog smothers her.

No! Where is he going?!

She feels something strong. Something old and malicious.

Then the wind knocks her off her feet. She loses her grip, and the wind pushes her violently away.

Yennefer bolts up right in the bed, gasping for air. Her head is spinning, and for a moment she feels she might faint.

“You’re all right.” Instantly, she feels someone gently push her back down into the bed. Corinne Tilly places her hand on Yennefer’s forehead. “It was an unpleasant dream?”

Yennefer resists the urge to remove the oneiromancer’s hand in a fit of pride. It’s actually easier to resist than she thought – Yennefer finds she has no energy to even raise her own arm.

“…What happened?”

“You dreamt. That is all.”

Yennefer sighs. The dizziness is beginning to subside, and she tries to sit up, but Corinne still forces her to lie.

“…I couldn’t see him clearly. He was in shadow the whole time. And entire conversations were just…gone, or inaudible. Everything was obscured by this…fog.”

“Fog?” Corinne frowns. “Tell me more.”

“There’s not much more to say. It was just…fog. And by the end, it grew stronger. Something blew me away, right at the most important point. As if it was deliberately trying to stop me from finding out about Tye.”

Corinne leans back, troubled. “…I’m afraid you’ve got another challenge ahead of you, then. This fog and gale you’ve described, I’ve only ever heard one client describe it in the whole of my career. It’s a sign of magic used by the one being searched for: masking magic.”

“Masking magic?” Yennefer sits up slowly in bed, and this time Corinne doesn’t stop her. “You mean, he’s trying to hide his presence from magical means?”

“Yes. Including my own skill. You’d be hard pressed to find him with mega scopes or divination, either.”

Damn it. Yennefer pinches the bridge of her nose. All the easiest options are out of the window, then. She’s becoming reluctantly married to the idea she’ll have to figure out this murder the old fashioned way.

Still, the visit hasn’t been an entire waste. The murder of Parviz seemed to be carried out by Tye, and some other unnamed individual – one symbolised by a panther. And Tye gained something here in Novigrad, some magical artefact in the form of a necklace.

“Thank you, Corinne.”

“Not a bother.” She rises from her seat next to the bed. “You may stay here as along as it takes until you’re fit to walk again.”

At the door way, the godling is waiting eagerly again. When Corinne walks to her, she jumps up and down in excitement.

Corinne looks back at Yennefer one last time before she follows Sarah for whatever fun and games they have planned. “Good luck, Yennefer. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

——

The night is cold, at its most icy peak, by the time Yennefer reaches Hierarch Square. No pyres with burning sorceresses and mages. No stakes with unfortunate nonhumans or simple herbalists impaled on it, dying in hideous agony. No piles of blazing books confiscated from homes and libraries, condemned for ‘blasphemous content’. Just closed up market stalls, the occasional Nilfgaardian patroller – and a scaffold where nooses sway in the wind. Tonight, they’re empty, but it seems the Nilfgaardians are as ruthless as ever, eradicating all disobedience with merciless punishments as they spread their ‘civility’. At least the Church of Eternal Fire seems to have been eradicated, too.

Still, Yennefer raises her hood from her cloak. Triss told her about the horror stories of the mages trapped like rats in the walls of the free city. She’d seen it for herself when she’d rescued Rita, when Geralt had put the tortured and dying Sile out of her misery. Such a vision, the once proud and scheming sorceress reduced to a painful husk of her former self, is not something Yennefer will forget quickly.

Up ahead, she sees Regis and Ameer waiting by a sign post. Both look uneasy.

“Ah, Yennefer. Did you find out where Tye went?” Regis asks her.

“No, unfortunately. What about you?”

To her dismay, Regis shakes his head. “Dandelion and Zoltan weren’t sure either. Though they were able to share some interesting information. Tye was searching the city for masking magic. I believe that might be the link between Tye and Parviz.”

“Well, I suppose he got what he was searching for. The dream was obscured by the effects of powerful masking magic. What for, though, I’m not sure.”

“For us.” Ameer speaks up gravely. “The ravens told Regis that Tye knows of us. Knows about our identities.”

“What?” Yennefer frowns, dread worming its way through her heart. “That’s troubling. Are they sure?”

“They’re rarely mistaken.” Regis says. No wonder the two of them look so uneasy. A foe like that, with such important information about their identities – information that could get them tied to a stake and burnt, even now.

Ameer in particular looks distressed at the news. Vulpesses may be strong and very hard to kill, but they’re not invulnerable in the same way vampires are.

“So, I’m assuming we’ve no choice but to help prove Dandelion and Zoltan’s innocence ourselves?” Regis asks, swiftly changing the topic.

Yennefer sighs. “…I suppose so. Whoever helped Tye might know where he is now. We need to find the accomplice, interrogate them.”

“I wholeheartedly agree. Perhaps we should retire for the remainder of the night, and head to the crime scene tomorrow morning? We’re likely to find clues better with a night of rest and fresh eyes.”

“I suppose…” No matter how much she’d love to start searching now, he’s right. Her energy is still drained from the unpleasant dream, too. Perhaps some rest would be beneficial.

She’s awake for a long while, though.

At first, Yennefer tries to lie in the bed and sleep. Her body is aching and exhausted, but her mind is still active, awake. The same worries that plagued her with Corinne Tilly still follow her, whispering doubts in her ears.

So she gets up. Stretches, dons a silk night gown, and paces up and down the corridors of the Chameleon, passing other chambers where she hears the sound of snoring. She hopes the mindless exercise will calm her mind, make it easier to sleep when she returns to bed.

Then she happens to hear a conversation.

She didn’t mean to linger outside the room where Regis and Ameer are staying. Yet somehow, she finds herself standing there, listening hard to their hushed voices.

“It’s ok. It was just a nightmare. You’re safe now.” Regis speaks in a calm, patient manner.

Ameer says nothing, but she can hear his heavy breathing.

“…Would you like me to fetch Yennefer?”

“No.” He says quickly. “No, I…I do not want her to know.”

His words strike Yennefer with hurtful blows. She purses her lips and continues listening.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No…” he sounds close to tears.

“...What are you worried about, Ameer?”

“What if everyone finds out? What if I am taken away again?”

“That won’t happen.”

“But what if it does?!” He sounds incredibly distressed.

“Tye isn’t in the city anymore. He’s fleeing from us. He won’t come back to Novigrad and risk putting himself in danger just to expose us. And even if something did happen, you’re not alone. We won’t let anything bad happen.”

“Are you sure?”

“I promise.”

Ameer sighs. “…I am sorry. I am getting so panicked –”

“That’s all right. You don’t need to apologise.”

“…Thank you, Regis. And you are right.” His voice is becoming calmer, less distressed. “Tye would be very stupid to come back here. And if he does, we will be waiting for him.”

“Exactly. I’m sure he wouldn’t stand a chance against the three of us. Now, we should get some rest. We have a busy day tomorrow. Good night, Ameer.”

“Yes. Good night, Regis.”

After that, neither speak. Yennefer quietly walks back to her room, feeling more awake than before.

Why didn’t Ameer want to speak to her?

The thoughts torment her as she lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. On the boat, she understood. He was sick, and he was a little embarrassed about it. Fair enough. She’d have probably reacted the same way. But this?

She doesn’t understand. Ameer has known her for a long time. Even though it admittedly has been a long time since they’d last met, they still have a much longer history than that of him and Regis. So why is he confiding in him, and not her? Why does such a proud being allow himself to be comforted by someone he barely knows, yet refuses to even speak to Yennefer about it?

Is it his pride? Even after what Yennefer told him on the beach, is he still too proud to open up to her about what happened?

Or…it is _her_?

Yennefer knows she can be sharp, impatient, shrewd. Filled with pride, uncompromising. Is he afraid of speaking to her for that very reason? Does he think she’ll dismiss him, get irritated?

The thought upsets her with surprising force. It upsets her even more when she realises that this might be the very reason they’re in this situation to begin with.

Maybe if Geralt had confided in her about his worries, he wouldn’t have been traipsing around Skellige. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten poisoned.

_Don’t be foolish, Yen._ She tells herself. _Thinking things like that will help nothing_._ For heaven’s sake, you are Yennefer of Vengerberg, Horsewoman of War. Survivor and hero of Sodden Hill, Kaer Morhen and the Wild Hunt invasion during Rag nar RoOg. Stop fretting like some teenage girl._

But the thoughts torment her all the same.

——

The next morning, she is irritable from her lack of sleep.

She hopes no one notices, especially Ameer, as she helps him choose a new outfit from Dandelion’s wardrobe. At least he’s asking for her advice on the matter. That should count for something. So, she tries to look engaged and content, fighting through her tiredness and irritability, pretend she’s blissfully unaware of Ameer’s request last night.

Ameer looks at Dandelion’s various expensive outfits. “Are you sure he will not mind?” He asks.

“Of course he won’t.” Priscilla reassures him. “And if he does, I’ll _make_ him not mind.” Maybe she’s sensed Ameer’s desperation to get out of those wretched Skelligan clothes.

“These are very fancy.” He looks to Yennefer. “I am not used to northern fashion. What do you think?”

“Hm. You’re right. I think most of these are a little too extravagant for your taste.” Dandelion certainly has been doing well for himself to have such clothes. The Chameleon must be very successful. In fact, Priscilla herself wears far finer clothes than when Yennefer first met her four years ago: a green satin blouse, decorated with golden swirling patterns across the bodice that looks similar to the pattern on her lute; green and white puff sleeves with longer burgundy sleeves that finish with lace at the wrists, no doubt to keep her warm in the cold weather; a golden high neck collar with a frill at the edges, interspersed with delicate white beads; all alongside her signature striped hose, mismatched stockings and feathered cap. Her performances as Callonetta have not suffered at all following the vampire attack. If anything, she’s been doing even better than before.

“What about this one?” Yennefer picks up a navy blouse with scarlet stripes at the upper chest and red pewter clasps along the middle, with a red silk border running parallel down the sides. The sleeves are cream from the elbow down, adorned with delicate, ruby coloured buttons. Simple enough, not gaudy like most of Dandelion’s clothes, but still elegant and refined.

“Hm…” Ameer examines it thoughtfully. “Yes, you are right. I will try this one.”

While he changes, Yennefer decides to exchange her own outfit for a new one. She has no desire to wear the same clothes she wore when she found Geralt, half frozen in a barn. Of course, she doesn’t stray far from her black and white colour scheme. She dons a black and white striped blouse fitted with a cream bodice, neatly buttoned down her chest and frilled at her neck. Over that, she wears a long sleeved bolero made from black velvet, with white stripes along the upper arm, and black lace over white satin on the forearm. The edges are lined with lilac lace, and a violet bow connects the two sides – a rare splash of colour in her usual style. A change in outfit always helped her mood. The feeling of casting aside one identity for another. It feels refreshing, in the same way as having a bath does. She hopes it’s enough to try and shake off her currently irritated disposition.

She greets Ameer back downstairs, where the hall seems significantly emptier than last night. She hopes that the inn’s business won’t suffer as a result of this murder.

“Ah, Yennefer. You are looking very lovely today.” Ameer smiles. He seems happy with his new outfit – all that remains of his Skelligan attire at the fur rimmed boots, the antler hilted knife with carved dragons on the handle, and his black raven-feathered coat. Good. He can do with as few reminders as possible of that land. “Is that _colour_ I see on your outfit?”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.” She attempts to go along with his teasing. At least he looks happier than he did yesterday – much, much happier, now that he’s out of Skellige. And she’s truly glad about that, no matter her own bad mood. “You’re looking lovely yourself.”

He looks down at himself, an expression of contentment on his face. “Thank you. I like this much better than what I wore before. You have a good eye, Yennefer.”

Now, Regis arrives, the soil on his clothes giving a clue to where he’s been. Unlike them, Regis has not changed his outfit at all. But he has been busy – Yennefer can smell basil, spruce, rosemary and all manner of earthy herbs, leaves and spices on his person. He must have been out early this morning collecting herbs to help disguise himself.

“Apologies for keeping you waiting.” He brushes off some last specks of woodland soil from his attire. “Being in such a big city makes me…wary, especially if there are any dogs around. I thought it would be best to stock up on plenty of herbs to better conceal my presence.”

Ameer looks him up and down carefully. He leans forwards towards Regis, as if whispering in his ear, brow furrowed in concentration. “…You do not smell like a vampire anymore.”

At this, Regis looks relieved. “Good. Very good. If your keen sense of smell can’t tell, then I should be all right.”

Ameer smiles proudly. “Keen is an understatement. We Fox Mothers have excellent senses of smells, even better than you vampires.”

“I’m even happier to have your seal of approval, then. We should be safe from any unsavoury characters who might be searching for our identities, yes?”

Yennefer shouldn’t understand what he’s talking about, but she instantly thinks of their conversation last night. The bad mood she was trying to push out of her mind comes back in full force as she thinks about the conversation she wasn’t meant to overhear. Ameer doesn’t want her to know about his fears and worries, yet is perfectly fine admitting them to Regis. It bothers her. It really does. 

She hopes neither of the other two notice as she marches silently to the crime scene, following the directions given by Priscilla. What is she doing, sulking like a spoilt child? But she can’t help but walk ahead, the conversation still lingering in her mind.

Either they don’t realise that she’s angry, or they’re too polite to bring her up on it. Instead, Regis comments on all the changes of the city over the many hundreds of years he’s been alive, and Ameer stares excitedly at every house and person they pass. This is the first northern city he’s been in, she realises. There aren’t exactly any cities in Skellige, and the furthest north he had travelled to this prior was Nilfgaard. 

When they reach the crime scene, Yennefer is surprised at the number of people milling about outside. A large crowd is gathered in the streets outside the shop, pretending to mind their own business but in reality peering through the smashed windows, chattering to each other under their breath. Yennefer wonders how many are actually curious, and how many are more interested in what left over items would be available to pilfer and sell on.

They won’t get much luck, though. Two Nilfgaardian soldiers stand outside the entrance to ‘Exotic Treasures’, both armed and looking rather grumpy. Above them, the sign for the shop creaks and sways slowly in the wind. It displays a rather gaudy painting of a treasure chest.

Yennefer sighs, and begins pushing her way through the crowd impatiently.

“Oi!” One man shouts in her face, after she accidentally pushes him into another stander by. “Watch where you’re going, whore!”

Today, Yennefer is not in the mood for this. “Kindly piss off, and you won’t have to worry.” Completely aggravating, but worth it in her foul mood.

“What the fuck did you say?!” The man steps up, rolling up his sleeves.

“Please step away.” Regis says tiredly, standing in front of Yennefer. “No need to start an altercation.”

“Oh yeah? Piss off, old man.” Honestly, the fact this man thinks he can intimidate Regis, a vampire, makes the situation almost amusing.

“Move away. We have important work to do.” Ameer says coldly.

The man turns on him. “You think you can order me around, elf? If the Church were still here, there’d be a nice toasty bonfire for you! Now fuck off before I round off your ears!”

Ameer looks a little taken aback by the insults. However, the soldiers by the shop hear the curse words and threats.

“Halt!” One soldier orders, leaving his post to break up the confrontation. “What is the meaning of this? Are you threatening this elf?”

At once, the man begins to falter and stutter. “I…I-I didn’t mean – I didn’t –”

“Leave at once, or I’ll have you arrested!” The Nilfgaardian soldier shouts. At once, the man turns and hurries away. In fact, most of the crowd begins to disperse.

Interesting. The townspeople fear their Nilfgaardian invaders, their harsh and merciless punishments, and yet the invaders in question have dampened the fanatic superstition and racism that ran riot through the city. A most peculiar situation. Yennefer is certain that the nonhumans and mages never would’ve imagined that these ruthless invaders would actually end up protecting them from pogroms and massacres.

The Nilfgaardian soldier folds his arms, looking at Ameer.

“What business do you have here? We do not appreciate fights being started in the streets.”

“It was my fault –” Yennefer begins, but Ameer shakes his head.

“It is fine, Yennefer.” He then turns back to the Nilfgaardian soldier. “We have been granted permission to investigate this crime scene.” He passes the soldier a piece of paper, embellished in cursive and a red wax stamp at the bottom. An illusion.

The soldier reads the paper. “I see. So be it. The body was removed some hour ago, thought to have been killed at 2 hours past midnight. Three stab wounds from a six inch knife, thought to belong to the victim himself. May your search go well – no doubt the commissioner will not be pleased at a bumbled job.” He then steps aside, allowing the three of them to enter.

“That was quick thinking.” Regis praises him once they’re inside the shop.

Ameer just shrugs modestly. “It was very simple.”

“Yes, very good.” Yennefer says much more curtly than she meant to. “Let’s search. I’m not particularly fond of Nilfgaardians and would like to get this over with as fast as we can.” There is truth to her words. She’s never been fond of the Nilfgaardians, found them to be ruthless and greedy, and she feels uneasy being in the presence of her old employers who, owing to said ruthlessness, may decide to one day tie up loose ends and quietly kill her. If she stays away from them, then that becomes unlikely, but in Novigrad it’s a possibility she must contend with. “We’re already wasting enough time solving this murder the long way.”

Parviz’s shop is in shambles. The floor is littered with broken glass on one side, and scattered antiques on the other. Yennefer steps over cheap looking animal skins and scaly leather hides clearly made from a fake material. In the middle of the store, a dried pool of blood leaks through the floorboards. The body is gone, probably taken to the morgue.

“Look.” Regis points down at the blood stains. “Foot prints. Two sets.” Sure enough, Yennefer sees bloodied boot prints on the wooden floor. One set is slightly bigger than the other, the marks different in style and make. At least two culprits, like the Nilfgaardians said.

At the side of the store, a staircase down into a basement has been roped off. Next to it stands a sign: STAFF ONLY. Towards the back, most of the glass display cabinets have been shattered. Though, nothing has been taken. Trinkets, old medals and coins, a sword that looks as if it might break with one swing – obviously not deemed worthy enough to steal.

“Hm.” Regis picks up the rusty sword, weighing it in his hands. “This is no old relic – simply a Velen longsword that has been overused and left in a bog for a few years.”

Ameer bends down to look at an ornate rug, stained with blood and sprinkled with glass. “And this, someone has tried to replicate an Ofieri rug. But the patterns are sloppy, the material is not right. A cheap replica.”

Yennefer looks around the shop. Nothing particularly catches her eye as being magical or powerful. Only overpriced.

“Well, he still ended up dead, and Tye had something to do with it. There must be more than meets the eye. Perhaps there’s a hidden compartment somewhere.”

Ameer points to the staircase. “Shall we go down there?”

“You get started down there. Regis and I shall have one more look up here, in case we’ve missed anything.”

Ameer accepts this and ducks under the rope, heading down to the basement of the shop without any thought. However, Regis gives Yennefer a puzzled look.

She waits until Ameer is out of ear shot, then speaks. “Are you and Ameer close?”

Regis frowns. “Well, we haven’t exactly known each other long. But we certainly don’t dislike each other. He’s a rather interesting individual, in fact. I’d be happy to call him a friend.”

“Hm.” Yennefer turns and begins examining the broken display cases once more, feigning only causal interest in the conversation. “Does he speak to you a lot? About what happened?”

“Not particularly. He doesn’t like to speak of it.” He tilts his head. “Are you quite all right, Yennefer?”

“I’m fine.” She says sharply. “In fact, I am exceedingly content today, thank you for asking.”

He hesitates, then begins to examine the blood stains. “…I think he talks to me about certain things because we’re similar. Sorceress can be hated, but they can also gain great political power. Monsters like us…that’s never an option, not really. Our presence will always be shunned and hunted, no matter what. We always have to hide our true identity.”

“Hm.” She hadn’t thought about it like that before.

“Why do you ask?”

Yennefer sighs, instantly feeling foolish for her sulking and interrogation – at poor Regis, of all people. “Nothing…I suppose you can say I’m worried for him.”

“Well, he cares a great deal about you. Ultimately, you are the only person here he knows from before his troubling year in Skellige, and it’s clear he greatly values your opinion. He’s, I would assume, embarrassed about his current state. Because of that, it will still take time for him to open up about his experiences.” He pauses. “Let him take his own time. And dare I say, you have your own problems to be worrying about, surely.”

“Like I said, I’m fine.” She insists, instantly embarrassed at how easily he saw through her.

Regis nods, and wisely decides to drop the matter. “Shall we head downstairs? Not much else to be gained up here.”

“Yes.” She had always thought that, and just wanted an excuse to talk without Ameer being present. “I doubt this man was killed in the name of these cheap trinkets.”

Downstairs, a wooden desk is piled high with papers and notices. A bear rug with a poorly taxidermized face hangs from one wall, and a poor copy of Sunrise on Toussaint hangs on the other. Apart from that, a candelabra, and a few empty bottles of wine on the floor, the room is empty.

Ameer stands, reading slowly through one of the papers, touching the scar on his neck as he concentrates. He looks relieved when Regis and Yennefer enter.

“Could you help? I am not very good at reading Common.”

“Of course.” Yennefer takes the paper he was reading, and speaks out loud.

“To Parviz,

I am sorry to say I cannot lend you any money. Your previous financial transactions, and statements from the bank, means I cannot be confident you would be able to pay it back. However, I advise that you do not turn to any of the money lenders in the city. I will give this advice for free – you will only dig a hole deeper for yourself. Even with the Black Ones breathing down their backs, their interest rates are still colossal.

Good luck,

Cyprian Wiley.”

“And idea who that is?” Regis asks when she finishes reading.

“Yes. Dudu.”

Ameer cocks his head in confusion. “…Dudu?” He repeats, puzzled.

“A Doppler.” Yennefer elaborates. “Some years back, a very unsavoury gang leader – Whoreson Junior – got into a skirmish with Ciri, our dear friend Dandelion and the Doppler Dudu. Geralt eventually killed him, and quite frankly the city was better for it.” He only briefly mentioned the horrific scene he’d witnessed in the room where he cut the bastard down: all the poor dead women he’d found. After hearing that, Yennefer vehemently agreed with his decision to kill the man. “After that, Dudu took his place and appearance. Made his businesses legal, and much more profitable. Even with the Nilfgaardian invasion, it seems he’s still going strong. Apparently, he always had a head for business.”

“Well,” Regis flicks through various papers written in big, angry letters, “it seems our poorly departed friend Parviz did not have the same business sense. A lot of these are warnings from a money lender.” He reads out one. “‘You have 3 days to pay us back or you’ll end up with one finger less – and today we’re being reasonable.”

A motive, perhaps? Certainly something to consider.

“And look at this.” Regis passes her another paper. “Complaints.”

“Dear Mr Parviz, your necklace has left a horrid and painful mark on my neck. I demand a full refund and extra compensation for the medical bills. I expect this in 3 days, or the Black Ones will hear of it.” Yennefer reads out.

“Broken pocket watch…Fur coat gave a rash…Silver ring has left a green mark on my skin…Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Regis reads through them. “Oh, this one is particularly crude. You fired me, left me on the streets, after all I did for this business…I hope Barney’s Jewellery Emporium, my home now, crushes your pathetic business into the dirt…And then a lot of words I shan’t repeat in pleasant company.”

Ameer peers over Regis’s shoulder. “Hm. I do not recognise a lot of these words.”

“You don’t want to. Trust me.”

Ameer turns to study the bear rug and the painting. He frowns. “Too obvious…” Then he walks to the desk again. “Help me move this?”

They remove the piles of papers from the desk, and Ameer pushes the desk backwards. On the floor, Yennefer sees grooves that clash with the wood panelling of the floor.

“Ah, a trap door.” Ameer tries to open it. “…Locked.”

“Never fear.” With no warning, Regis transforms into black smoke, and filters through the cracks on the floor. After a moment, the trap door clicks and opens.

“Well, that’s a rather handy trick.” Yennefer comments as Regis pushes open the trap door.

“Yes, and one particularly useful if I were a burglar. Sadly, I don’t get many occasions to use it.” He begins climbing down the ladder. Ameer follows, though Yennefer readies a light spell first – it looks dark down there, and she doesn’t have night vision.

Once off the ladder, Yennefer hears a grunt of pain from Regis. “Careful. Don’t step any further.”

She casts her light towards him, and sees his foot caught in a bear trap.

“Are you all right?”

“Don’t you worry.” He simply forces open the bear trap with his brute strength, and gets busy disarming three others, all set out in a line that spans the width of the dark corridor in which they stand. “Actually, I’m rather interested to know why he bothered to set such traps in the first place.”

Ameer gingerly steps over the disarmed trap, still wary. “I can smell a lot of magic. I think we are getting close to what we need.”

The corridor isn’t long, but it still takes a while to walk down it. Every so often, they must step over thin trip wires, avoid pressure panels and hidden spikes in the wall. Parviz certainly spent a lot of time and effort fortifying this area.

When they reach the end of the corridor, and Regis repeats his fog techniques to open a large and locked door, they see why.

Hidden deep beneath the cheap and poorly made trinkets of Exotic Treasures is a store room filled to the brim with expensive and powerful artefacts. Old and very legitimate paintings hang on the wall next to mounted weapons – huge morning stars, colossal swords and daggers with golden intricate handles. Glass cabinets contain all sorts of valuable, and often dangerous, looking artefacts, each one labelled: cursed necklaces, chunks of meteorite, golden figurines and a set of throwing daggers, all made from pure dimeritium.

Yennefer walks up along the glass cabinet. She spies a pearly, iridescent and spiralling horn. “That’s…a unicorn horn. Real and genuine. How on earth did he get his hands on this?”

Meanwhile, Ameer crouches and strokes the hair of an animal skin spread on the rug. It has white and black stripes, one Yennefer doesn’t recognise. “…This is real, too. From my homeland. We call them, _Alwahshiu_. In appearance, like a horse.”

“You have black and white stripy horses?” Regis asks.

“Mm…they are not really horses. They are not domesticated. If you try to ride them, they buck you off.”

Regis raises his eye brow. “Are you speaking from personal experience there?”

“No.” Ameer says too quickly.

“I assume alcohol was involved?”

“…Maybe. Ah, look at this.” Ameer quickly changes the topic, looking embarrassed. “This suit of armour looks real, yes?”

“You’re right.” Regis examines it. “This is from the invasion of Dol Blathanna. Look, you can see the faint colours of Aedirn’s flag on the shield, and this type of soil is only found in Dol Blathanna. Incredible. In fact, so incredible it amazes me how Parviz got in so much financial difficulties with such rare and expensive items in the basement.”

“Indeed. Yet he ran into it all the same. If the ones who wanted money from him knew of this array of treasures, though…Perhaps they sought to break in, steal something far more valuable than a debt or compensation money for a faulty purchase.”

“And Tye helped this burglar.” Regis continues. “Because Parviz had something he wanted, too.”

“Look at this!” Ameer calls them over to a glass cabinet. This one, though, is open and empty.

He points to the labels. “Tye must have taken this one.” It says, ‘Pendant of Rajul Sharir.’ “I know this. He was a powerful sorcerer in Ofier. But he always used his powers to trick, to deceive. The tribes grew angry and sought to kill him. He made a charm to protect himself from the druids and wizards who tried to seek him, and escaped Ofier, fleeing to Nilfgaard.”

“If he was successful, then how did Parviz end up with this?” Regis asks.

“He was too arrogant. And though he masterfully hid himself from magic, he did not hide himself from the skills of a simple hunter. The hunter tracked the wizard with conventional means, all the way to Nilfgaard – and killed him.”

“Let’s just hope that Tye is equally as careless.” Yennefer muses. “And what about this – a Zerrikanian transmutator?” She points to the empty slot next to the missing pendant.

However, Ameer shakes his head. “I was hoping you had heard of it. I do not know what that is.”

“Nor do I. But should we find something Zerrikanian in origin among the possessions of a suspect, we can assume they must be involved.” Regis says.

Yennefer paces back and forth, thinking through what she’s learnt so far. “Whoever was involved was represented as a panther. And they must have known about Parviz’s secret stash of valuables here. They were approached by Tye, or approached him themselves, and the two formed a partnership to break in a steal something. The burglary must have gone wrong, and Parviz ended up murdered. But who would know about this collection?”

Regis contemplates this. “…For starters, we should look at the two main parties who disliked Parviz: those with complaints about his products, and money lenders. Maybe he was too slow in refunding them, they started digging around to find a faster way to get money from him, and found out about this hidden room?”

“It’s as good as place to start as any.” Now, this – this helps ease Yennefer’s worries. Finally, thinking of a plan, getting ready for action. “Ameer, you come with me to visit Dudu. He was friends with Ciri, so he’ll speak to me. We’ll ask him about the money lenders. Just in case matters turn…problematic when we speak to any debtors, I’ll want your illusory abilities on hand.”

Ameer nods, and smiles. “Trust me, my illusions will sort any problems out.”

“I’ll start working my way through this list of complaints.” Regis decides. Good, his charming manner will get any customer to open up to him. “And I’ll request that Priscilla come with me. She has more knowledge of the locals than I, she might be able to provide some interesting information.”

“Good. We’ll meet at the Chameleon when we’re done.” Solving this won’t be easy. There are plenty of people who would want this Parviz dead, it seems. But someone in this city knows where Tye went. So they need to solve this, no matter what.

They’ve got a lot of work to do.


	10. The New Novigrad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains spoilers for the book series (particularly the book Lady of the Lake).  
Translation notes are at the end :)

_“Robbed of Radovid's tactical genius, the Northern Realms could not withstand Emhyr's countless l_ _egions. Black banners appeared over Novigrad and all Redania.” – Dandelion on the outcome of the third Northern war._

“Ameer? What is it?”

They’ve barely even left the Chameleon to embark on their mission, and already Ameer has stopped three times. Always in front of a shop, peering at the displays. The first was a clothes shop – the fashion of the North was odd and unusual to him, he claimed, very different from Ofier interests. The second was a food stall, which he decided looked unhygienic, even if it smelt good.

Now, he stands outside a weapons shop, peering inside. The shop owner isn’t there, though Yennefer can smell dumplings coming from inside the shop, oddly.

Ameer says nothing, but stares at the display of weapons – swords of all shapes and sizes, a few shields, and a bow – with amazement. It’s a cold day, and his breath is coming out in condensation. Most of Novigrad seems to be wrapped up more so than usual, but Ameer was cold enough to borrow a scarf from Priscilla when they returned to the Chameleon to ask for directions, the medallion nestled in its folds. Priscilla had asked if Yennefer wanted one too, but she insisted she was fine. Now she regrets it slightly, with the weather suddenly taking a cold snap.

Their trip to the Chameleon hadn’t been a particularly long one. While Priscilla wrote out directions – shops and residences have changed since Yennefer last visited four years ago – Yennefer encouraged, rather than forcing as she had done in Skellige, Ameer to eat some breakfast. Much to her relief, he happily obliged and devoured his soft-boiled egg with hot bread, butter and honey preserve. At long last, his appetite has returned.

As has his curiosity, staring in interest at the various shops they pass. In fact, she has to call to him multiple times.

“Ameer? What's wrong?”

Her voice snaps him out of his daze. “Nothing, nothing.” He hurries to catch up with her.

Wait, was she too impatient? “Am I rushing you?” She feels guilty at being so curt with him this morning, now that her foul mood has dampened somewhat.

“No, we should hurry. And be careful, too.”

Ameer is right about that. Yennefer doesn’t have many concerns about speaking to Dudu – dopplers tend to be harmless creatures – but she’ll have to be wary when it comes to whichever loan sharks that leant to Parviz. She wouldn’t be surprised if there was some link to the black market, either, considering all the valuable artefacts in Parviz’s basement. And she isn’t sure how the crime world has changed following the invasion and the fall of the Church of Eternal Fire. Uncertainty is not something she is a fan of. Yes, she’s faced the Wild Hunt and lived, and her mind reading should foretell any surprise attacks. She and Ameer will most certainly be fine. But Geralt, his soul hanging perilously in a hunk of jewellery? They’ll have to be careful.

Once again, their journey is halted. They’ve already had to change their route: the bridge closest to the Chameleon, just north of the inn, has been damaged, and the Nilfgaardians have closed the bridge for repairs and safety. This time, they’re halted by a horse and carriage in the middle of the road. The carriage seems fine, loaded with crates, but the horse is neighing and rearing up.

“Woah!” The owner of the carriage, a tall man with a woollen hat and clothes dirtied with soot, is trying in vain to calm his horse. Then he turns to a group of fleeing children.

“Go on! Get out of here!” He waves his fist angrily at them. The children run away, shouting crude curses and giggling. Still, the horse doesn’t calm.

Suddenly it stops, and becomes instantly relaxed. Yennefer glances at Ameer, who approaches the horse. He just bewitched it, didn’t he?

The owner of the horse watches in amazement as Ameer speaks gently in Ofieri to it, stroking its neck. It must seem as if he calmed the horse down simply with his presence.

“How did you do that?” The owner asks.

Ameer falters – ‘I bewitched it’ isn’t exactly a normal answer, and he’s out of practice at hiding his identity, so Yennefer steps forwards.

“Well, Ofieri are known for their superior abilities when it comes to handling horses.”

The owner nods, scratching his head. “I was never sure if that was just stereotype or if it was true, though I guess you’ve just shown me.”

“Will you need any help?” Ameer asks. However, the owner stares at him, then grins. He takes off his hat, showing elven ears.

“Caedmil! Tá sé deas bualadh leat.”

“Tá áthas orm bualadh Aen Seidhe eile.” Ameer smiles, touching the other elf’s ears mischievously. “Tá áthas orm a fheiceáil go bhfuil Aen Seidhe thuaidh ag breathnú mar a chéile Aen Seidhe ó Ofier.”

The elf grins, then speaks in Common. “My name is Éibhear Hattori. And yours?”

“Ameer.” He gestures to Yennefer. “And this is my friend Yennefer.”

“Well, I thank you for your help, Ameer!” He looks in the direction of where the children went and scowls. “I caught those children trying to steal my dumplings and told them off. They thought it would be fun to throw stones at my horse and spook it. But, never mind!” He turns back to them cheerfully.

“Dumplings…” Ameer stares at the heavy crates in the carriage. “Are these ingredients?”

“Oh, goodness no!” Hattori laughs. “Dumplings are but a…complimentary business for me. I’m a blacksmith. You won’t find a finer sword in all the north!”

“Oh, a blacksmith. You own that shop on the same street as the Chameleon, don’t you?” That’s why Yennefer had smelt dumplings coming from it.

“The very one.”

“Ah, you own that glorious bow!” Ameer says excitedly. “Do you make bows, too?”

“Not exactly. Come, I’ll tell you more. Treat yourself to a dumpling for free, in thanks for calming my steed.”

Ameer looks hopefully at Yennefer, who sighs and nods. “I suppose a small detour won’t hurt.”

Hattori leads his horse through the street, carefully trying to avoid anything that will make it spook again. As they walk, he asks,

“You know the Chameleon well?”

“We’re friends with the owners.”

Hattori shakes his head. “Terrible shame about what happened. I can’t say I know them all too well, but I find it hard to imagine the likes of that bard ruthlessly murdering a fellow shop keeper.”

“You think they’re innocent?”

“Well, the Black Ones seem convinced, claiming it was to cut down on business, but as a business owner myself it makes no sense. Not only were they in completely different fields, but the Chameleon was doing particularly well!”

“Particularly well?” Yennefer repeats.

“Yes. You see, the Chameleon is an entirely independent businesses, by which I mean it relies only on products within Novigrad – people. Any other expense, food and the like, can be bought within Novigrad itself too. Whereas businesses relying on imports and exports have found themselves facing quite the sudden financial decline. The Nilfgaardian taxes on the items they buy from outside the city are higher than what was before, as to be expected. For me, I’ve just branched out. Started up my mini dumping enterprise again, and that has helped cover the extra costs, so thankfully I’m doing all right. Parviz is struggling – well, struggled – a lot more.”

“That makes sense. What’s your opinion on your Nilfgaardian overlords, then?” She asks curiously.

Hattori sighs. “For businesses, it’s been difficult. Some have been entirely run to the ground with the new taxation. The common folk struggled, too. New laws, new ways of running the place, all done by people with a different language and culture to their own. The underworld faced a very rough time of it, though I don’t know much about that. The Black Ones are, quite frankly, ruthless. But,” he emphasises the word strongly, “they are fair. Harsh, but fair. No group is treated any more leniently or harshly than the other. And any group trying to use superstition and fanaticism to gain power has quickly been put down. The racist attacks have stopped. No more lynching and mobs, or else one faces death at the hands of the Nilfgaardians.” He shudders. “And for that, I am grateful. Never will stop being grateful. If the Church of Eternal fire had continued going on as it did, it could’ve been me who ended up burning on a pyre. It was…terrible.”

“I understand. Many of my old colleagues were killed when Radovid purged the city of mages.” She says bitterly.

Hattori nods solemnly. “Ah, so you must be Yennefer of Vengerberg, the sorceress? Thought I recognised you.”

Ameer gently touches Yennefer’s arm. “Are things…still dangerous?” He asks, quietly and concerned.

“No, don’t worry.” She assures him. “Things are much calmer now.”

“Tá sí ceart, mo chara Ofieri. The sorceress is right. All there is now are a few racist remarks, harmless pranks – like those children. Nothing on the scale of a year ago.” Hattori agrees.

Ameer still looks concerned. When Hattori is distracted by his horse trying to veer down the wrong path, he whispers to Yennefer,

“Are you... feeling all right? Are you upset with being here?”

His comment takes her by surprise. She smiles despite herself, almost…flattered by his concern. “I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me.”

When they reach Hattori’s shop, Yennefer is secretly glad for a moment of relief from the weather.

“Here.” Hattori passes them both a dumpling, then starts unloading his cargo. “Made them fresh this morning!”

The dumpling is hot, warming up her cold mouth, and very good. If he were to abandon his blacksmith business, he’d have no trouble making a successful one out of these dumplings.

Ameer devours his dumpling very quickly, probably both out of hunger and enjoyment.

“You look thin, my friend.” Hattori passes him one more. “Have another.”

“So, this bow.” Yennefer quickly asks, eager to wrap up this visit and continue on their way to meet Dudu. “Tell us more.”

Hattori nods, and carefully lifts the bow down from its display. Yennefer doesn’t see how it’s different from any other bow, but Ameer stares at it in awe.

“I didn’t make this myself.” Hattori tells them. “In fact, I think it was swiped from Parviz’s shop. Saw it circulating around the market shortly after his death. I don’t use bows, but I instantly recognised it and had to buy it. Goodness knows any other random soldier or hunter wouldn’t know how to treat this bow right.”

“A bow from the Far North.” Ameer marvels at it. “Wingspan of sixty two inches, made from mahogany, whale bone and tendons. It is beautiful.”

“It’s not just any old bow.” Hattori tells him. “I recognised it from the tales. This bow belonged to none other than Milva, or Maria Barring. A legend among dryads, elves and humans alike. She travelled with the hanse of Geralt of Rivia on their journey to find Cirilla, and she bought this very bow on her travels. Sadly, she was killed – ironically, by an arrow – but her stories as a legendary archer and hero live on.”

“Milva…Yes, Geralt spoke of her. His hanse was almost entirely killed. He was particularly grieved by her death.”

“Of course, you know Geralt.” Hattori slaps his head. “You’re Yennefer of Vengerberg – Callonetta sings of your adventures together. He helped me out a few years ago. If it weren’t for him, this business wouldn’t exist. Now, I’m the most successful swordsmith in the city, and I’ve certainly upgraded my residence, too, from that hovel I lived in before.” He pauses, considering. “To be honest, I’d rather not hang onto this for too long – it very may well be stolen goods from Parviz’s store, and I don’t want any trouble with the Nilfgaardians. Yet I’d rather not give it to any old fool who’d mistreat it. You seem to have an appreciation for bows, and since you are friends with Geralt, I would happily give you a discount. 300 crowns for the bow and any arrows I have lying around, if you’re willing to buy it.”

Ameer's face falls. “I am most sad, for I have no money.”

300 crowns…that’s a lot. Yennefer purses her lips. That’s money to be used for a bribery here and there, or more accommodation and food depending on where their journey takes them. She shouldn’t spend so frivolously.

But…He has so little to call his own. Nothing except Dandelion’s clothes and his Skelligan gifts. Who knows how many of his possessions back in Ofier have been destroyed or sold on? He has nothing. And he looks at that bow so sadly…

Yennefer sighs, and takes out her coin purse. If anything, Geralt wouldn’t want the bow of his dead friend to fall into careless hands.

“I’ll buy it.” She tells Hattori, handing him over the money.

Honestly, it’s worth it just to see how Ameer’s face lights up. When Hattori passes it to him, he strokes the wood lovingly and carefully, running his hand along the smooth grain.

“Now, let’s be going.” Yennefer’s coin pouch is significantly lighter than before when she puts it away. “Thank you for the dumplings.”

“And thank you for calming my horse. Va fail!”

As soon as they leave the shop, Ameer turns to Yennefer with delight.

“Thank you so much! Thank you, thank you! I will treasure it always!”

She can’t help but smile. “All right, don’t get too soppy on me.”

Yennefer glances as he puts the bow over his shoulder in a fluid, practiced movement, and fastens a quiver of arrows at his side.

“I didn’t realise you could use a bow – or that you even needed to.” Any problems they encountered in Nilfgaard were solved using illusions and magic.

“Well, I am not as powerful as my mother, as you know.” He explains. “And illusions can only trick others into harm, not directly harm them. I have my strength, but against many foes that may not be enough. So she taught me archery. We practised many times, so that I have great skill.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it.”

He grins, and knocks into her slightly. “You are…soft, Yennefer. Underneath your sharp exterior.”

“Is that so?”

“Very soft.”

\-- 

After that, they reach Dudu’s headquarters without much trouble or distraction. As soon as she mentions Ciri and Geralt’s name to the body guards outside, both Yennefer and Ameer are let through. They’re not left waiting long for an audience with the doppler, either.

The room is well furnished with expensive oak furniture, golden candelabras, and ornate rugs underfoot. A fireplace roars in the corner, heating the room comfortingly. A mahogany desk is stacked high with paper, mostly covered with financial recordings rather than overdue bills and complaints. Behind the desk sits a rather ugly man. Nose slightly wonky, teeth crooked, and a long scar over one eye. His rough face contrasts starkly with his refined doublet, which has golden cuffs and a ruby collar.

“Ah, unexpected visitors. I’d ask your name, but if you’re friends with Ciri and Geralt, I don’t much need to, do I?” Even his voice is unpleasant to the ears. But it has no hostility to it, which Yennefer guesses is very different to the late Whoreson Junior.

“Nor I. It’s good to see you’re doing well, Dudu.”

Dudu laughs. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Please, call me Cyprian, for the sake of any eavesdroppers nearby. How are you, Yennefer? And how’s Ciri?”

“I’m fine. Ciri, too.” She doesn’t bother going into it. “Thank you for helping back then.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Nothing, nothing at all. And who’s this?”

“Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation. My name is Ameer.”

Dudu peers carefully at him. “…Not a vampire, not a doppler like myself…” he scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Takin’ on the appearance of an elf…” He snaps his fingers. “Vulpess?”

“You are observant.”

“Met a few ‘round here. Thought they were all lasses, though.”

“...Lasses?”

“Women. Girls.” Yennefer tells him.

“Oh. Call me an exception, then.”

“So, what brings you here, Yennefer and Ameer?”

“Parviz. Dandelion and Zoltan are being blamed for the murder.” Yennefer tells him.

Dudu sighs, scratching his head. “Dear oh dear…that bard is always getting into trouble, ain’t he?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Yennefer sits down in the chair opposite him. “We need to ask you about Parviz. We found a letter from you among his possessions.”

Dudu nods in recognition. “Yes, yes…I remember that letter. He wrote to me, askin’ to borrow money. Sadly, I had to refuse. His lendin’ history was too unreliable. Didn’t have much money sense, that Parviz. His wares were so shite, even a blind man could tell they were no good.”

Ameer is clearly struggling to understand the accent, so Yennefer decides to speak instead. “But he had many valuable items. Why was he in so much money difficulties?”

Dudu grins. “Ah, I see you found his secret stash of…questionable goods, then. Forbidden artefacts and stuff stolen from merchants.”

“Yes, and he had a lot of it.” Yennefer comments. “So why was he in debt? Why not sell it?”

“Oh, he wanted to. But he couldn’t. You see, he relied on black market auctions in Oxenfurt to sell his illegal wares when the Church was still in charge. Couldn’t exactly be sellin’ magic items with them lot around. So when the Black Ones came and shut everything down, all the illegal auctions, arrested any criminal they could find, he had nowhere and no one to sell his shit to – a lot of his old customers are either dead, or smart enough to lay low.”

“So he had a basement full of illegal items with no venue to sell them, and no customers who weren’t in jail or hanged.” Yennefer summarises.

“Yeah. And balls deep in debt.”

“Yes, we saw the warnings from a money lender. Do you know who he borrowed money from?”

“You familiar with the previous gangs of Novigrad? I say previous cause most of ‘em were busted by the Black Ones.”

Yennefer frowns, and tries to stretch back her memory. It’s not something she was ever particularly interested in, and her knowledge only comes from Geralt’s stories of his own encounters. “Well, there was Whoreson Junior – dead, obviously. Sigismund Dijkstra, though he’s dead, too. There was the dwarf, I forget his name, and the King of Beggars, the one who gave shelter to mages and thieves.”

Dudu nods. “King o’ Beggars – real name, Francis Bedlam. When the Black Ones invaded, he quickly learnt to adapt. Abandoned his so-called haven, the Putrid Grove – all the mages had left anyway, and he knew he was no match for the Black Ones. Honestly, it’s a miracle he wasn’t caught by ‘em. Always seemed to slip through their fingers. Anyway, he started legitimate businesses, like taking over the aforementioned Dijkstra’s bath house. And a money lending business.”

“Why would he start that up? Isn’t he getting income from the bath house?” Yennefer asks.

“Ah, but not enough.” Dudu leans closer to her, his voice low. “You see, the ol’ King of Beggars lost a lot of his men when the Black Ones took over. All arrested or executed – the smart ones fled or tried to live an honest life. But the word is, Francis Bedlam ain’t finished with his criminal ties yet.”

Yennefer narrows her eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

Dudu shrugs. “A lot of speculation, lot of rumours. Can’t be sure of the real answer. But word is, he’s up to something. Problem is, he’s…short staffed. Few people have the balls to try starting up major crime plots with the Black Ones around, not unless they’re desperate. But there are always people desperate for money. So, he had to take on more businesses to cover the costs of bribing people to help him. Including money lending. And those who couldn’t pay back the money, he could black mail into working for him.” He leans back in his chair. “Or so I’ve heard, anyway. I like to keep my finger on the pulse, especially when it comes to Whoreson Junior’s old associates, but with Bedlam you can never be sure. Man’s pragmatic, knows how to keep things a secret.”

“Did Francis Bedlam know about Parviz’s illegal wares?”

“Not that I know of. He was never interested in that sort o' thing, never participated in illegal auctions. Was too busy running the Putrid Grove back then, anyway.”

Now the most important question. “Do you think he’d have any reason to kill Parviz?”

“Dunno, to be honest. Plenty o’ reasons a man gets stabbed in this city. But Bedlam could have easily been one of ‘em. Maybe discovered Parviz was screwing him over, maybe negotiations went wrong. All I’m sayin’ is, is that Bedlam might not be as crazy as some of the other gang leaders we’ve seen in the past, but certainly wouldn’t be above murder and framin’. And he’s been…stressed lately. Things could’ve gotten out o’ hand.”

“Hm. Perhaps we should pay him a visit.”

Dudu laughs. “He won’t be willin’ to tell you much, I can guarantee that. Though maybe with your mind reading, you’ll get what you need. If you wanna speak to him, go to the bath house. He’ll probably be there.”

“Thank you for speaking to us, Dudu.” Yennefer stands up, then pauses. “Actually…”

“What is it?”

This is a bad idea. She knows it. But the opportunity is right in front of her, and she can’t resist it.

“Could you…Could you turn into Geralt for me?”

Dudu frowns. “Why?”

“Just…Please. Humour me.”

The doppler nods, and his form begins to change. Grow taller. Broader. His hair turns white, his eyes yellow and cat like. Around his neck is a medallion identical to the one Ameer wears.

Yennefer stares, her mouth dry. She feels like she can’t breathe. He’s right there. Breathing, moving, his eyes wide open and without pain. His face has no horrible pale grey colour, no sweat on his forehead. At his side, no necrotic flesh, no blood or pus.

Yennefer swallows, trying to compose herself. She strongly resists the urge to reach out and touch him.

Dudu folds his arms uncomfortably. “So…you happy?” Gods, even his voice sounds identical. She blinks back tears. “Can I turn back or…?”

Quickly, Yennefer turns away. She can’t risk looking at him for another second, lest she break down right there and then. “Yes. I’m sorry. Turn back, by all means.”

When she turns back, the form of her lover, the form of the one she adores so fiercely, is gone. The ugly gnarled face of Whoreson Junior has replaced it.

“Thank you. We best be on our way.” She says hastily, desperate to get out of the room now. If she cries, she’ll never forgive herself.

In the safety of the streets, Yennefer allows herself a moment to press her hand to her eyes, getting rid of those irritating tears. No time for water works now. There’s a job to be done.

When she feels Ameer’s hand on her shoulder, she automatically brushes it off. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m sorry. Don’t know why I’m getting emotional.”

Ameer cocks his head, concerned. “…Would you like me to do that? Create illusions?”

Quickly, she shakes her head. “No. No need. Won’t be trying that again.”

“…Should we go to this bath house?” She’s glad for his change in topic, that he’s offering her a distraction.

“Yes. Let’s get this over with.”

The walk to the bath house is painfully silent and awkward, owing primarily to Yennefer’s mistake with Dudu. She could kick herself. She wanted this to be an opportunity to bond more with Ameer, make him feel more comfortable to open up with her. That way, maybe he would open up to her more, prove Regis’s words to be true – the reason he opened up with Regis was because they are, to put it crudely, both monsters. But now, things have backfired. Ameer seems to be concerned with Yennefer, trying to get her to open up to him. The very opposite of what she wanted.

It’s a sweet mercy when they reach the bathhouse. The plaza just outside is crowded with people, Novigrad locals and Nilfgaardian soldiers off duty alike. Perhaps they’re here for some warm water during this cold snap that foretells of the colder winter to come.

But these people don’t look happy. In fact, Yennefer can hear snatches of Nilfgaardian swearwords among the Common curses and complaints.

Outside the doors, a bald man is trying to calm the crowd.

“I assure you, good sirs, we are acting as fast as we can to sort the problem.” His voice is at a higher pitch than Yennefer would expect. “Right now, we are searching for the most experienced monster slayer so that you may return to bathing at your leisure.”

Another problem in their path. Yennefer sighs, whispers to Ameer, “stay close to me,” and pushes her way through the crowd.

“Excuse me.” She calls to the bald man as she finally reaches the front of the disgruntled crowd. “Do you run this establishment?”

“No, I do not, I am merely the bookkeeper.” This doesn’t surprise Yennefer. She’d expect someone once named the King of Beggars to have more of a presence. “Though I am currently standing in for Mr Bedlam while he is away on business.”

“When will Mr Bedlam be back? There’s an important matter I’d like to discuss with him.”

“I’m afraid that Mr Bedlam will be busy all day, and will not have time for any additional appointments.”

Yennefer crosses her arms. She’s not leaving here until she speaks to the man. “What is the problem ailing your bath house today?”

“Drowners in the sewers. One got a little too close for comfort to our bath room, so we immediately withdrew our patrons and closed off the area.”

Hm. Time for a proposition. “It just so happens my friend –”

“Oh!” The bookkeeper stares at Ameer’s chest. “You’re a witcher?”

“Yes. I am.” He says firmly, after a millisecond of surprise.

The bookkeeper frowns in puzzlement. “Where are your swords, then?”

“Ofieri witchers do not only use swords. Many of us arrows.” He gestures to the quiver. “Special arrows. The heads are tipped with silver.”

Of course, Yennefer hasn’t heard of a single school that uses archery instead of swords, and is convinced that such a thing doesn’t exist. But the bookkeeper isn’t well read, and Ameer says it with complete confidence, so he believes it.

“In that case,” he steps aside, “please, do come in.”

The bath house is large and emanates wealth. No wonder, if Sigismund Dijkstra used to own the establishment. The pillars are crafted from fine, smooth marble. The same marble is used for the tiles on the floor, along with intricately patterned panels of gold and turquoise. Leading them from the main entrance, the bookkeeper takes them past a wooden mesh frame into the main bathing area. The pools of water are large and shallow, with colourful mosaics at the bottom.

“Hm.” Ameer’s gaze searches slowly over the bath house, taking in every feature.

“What do you think?” Yennefer asks him.

“It is…grander? Than I thought it would be. I am pleasantly surprised. The bath houses we have in Ofier are also very grand and wealthy. It is so hot, that many people like to use them, so their owners become very rich.” He glances at the bookkeeper walking ahead of them, and lowers his voice. “Though, our bath houses are also more hygienic, I think.”

Yennefer nods in agreement. “I can certainly imagine that being true.” All sorts of fights and violence have occurred here, and dead bodies are not a particularly hygienic thing to have in a bath house. 

“If I could draw your attention here.” The bookkeeper brings them to a smaller and deeper bath, right at the back. The water has been drained from this one, and when Yennefer peers inside the pool, she spots a large grate.

Ameer listens closely. “…I hear no monsters.”

“They’re down there.” The bookkeeper insists. “They’ve probably just retreated, now that all the people have left the bath house.”

Yennefer peers down the grate and sighs. She wishes she’d worn less expensive boots today. “Well, let’s get this over this.”

“I shall entrust this task to you and now take my leave.” The bookkeeper eyes the grate nervously. “Needless to say, I have no desire to hang around and encounter the monsters myself. I shall inform Mr Bedlam when he arrives.”

When he leaves, Yennefer readies a light spell. She hadn’t wanted to showcase her magic, out herself as a sorceress, in front of him. Just in case.

“Can you bewitch drowners?” She asks Ameer.

“Drowners…describe them to me. I am unfamiliar with this name in Common.”

“Blue, humanoid, with bulging eyes and scales. They live in water, normally in packs. Some folks here believe them to be dead corpses of those drowned in water brought back to life, though that is entirely inaccurate.”

“Ah, I see. We call them shaytan alma'. It means ‘water demon’. We do not see them very often, only in city sewers and sometimes at an oasis. I should be able to bewitch them, though I think we should still kill them. I cannot have them bewitched forever, and I would not like our meeting with this Mr Bedlam to be ruined if they return.” Carefully adjusting his bow, he begins to climb down into the sewers. “You follow after me. I will hide myself, check that it is safe to come down.”

She isn’t kept waiting long. Soon, Ameer calls up. “It is fine to come down.”

Sighing, she tentatively climbs down into the sewer after him. What an undignified job. She doesn’t know how Geralt put up with it for so long.

The inside of the sewers isn’t lit particularly well – many of the torches have snuffed out – so Yennefer is glad for her light spell. Ameer doesn’t seem to mind all that much, thanks to his night vision.

“Ugh.” She gingerly steps over a puddle of muck. “I hope these drowners come to us. I want to get this finished quickly.”

Ameer stands silently, listening to the dripping water and distant squelching. “I think I can hear them.” He points past a metal gate, where the ground is filled with used bath water mixed with dirt, past ankle height.

Yennefer groans internally at the thought of treading through it, and vows to herself to buy some ugly boots she wouldn’t mind sacrificing for future scenarios like this.

“They will be in a big group. I will hide us, and bewitch them. Then, you use your magic while I use my arrows.”

“This shouldn’t be too hard. Our combined powers aside, Geralt always said that drowners were sword fodder for him.” She stares uncertainly down the sewer tunnels, where she too can hear splashing water.

“Yennefer, here.” With almost no warning, Ameer lifts her up in his arms.

“Ameer, what on earth are you doing?” Yennefer says, startled. He may be tall, but he doesn’t look particularly strong. That’s his vulpess nature coming through, showing the species’ hidden and surprising strength. 

“It is very dirty up ahead, and you are wearing nice boots. It would be a shame if they became dirty. Beside, you are not heavy at all to me. I must be careful not to get my cloak dirty too, though,” he glances down at the hem, “it only goes down to my knees, so I think it will be fine.”

“Hm…This isn’t particularly dignified…”

A mischievous smile appears on Ameer’s lips. “Oh no…” he says dramatically. “My arms…they are getting tired…”

The second that Ameer begins to lower her, as if to drop her unceremoniously into the mud, she quickly grabs hold of his scruff and points her finger in his face.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Oh…my arms…” He lowers her further.

“Don’t you _dare_!”

He laughs, and rights himself. “Sorry. I could not resist.”

Yennefer smooths her hair. “You’re a little devil sometimes, you know that?”

“But I know you would not have it any other way.” He grins. “Now, I shall carry you to save your boots. You always were fond of your shoes.”

Yennefer’s pride doesn’t appreciate being carried bridal style through sewers, but then again, she appreciates ruining her boots even less. So she doesn’t complain when he carries her down the tunnels.

“How are you finding the stench?” Yennefer asks. “I know your sense of smell is far superior to mine, and I’m not particularly enjoying it.”

“You are right. It is not very nice.” He admits. “But I can smell your perfume strongly, too. I will try and focus on your lilac and gooseberries instead.”

She decides to do the same – focus on his own favourite lotion – when she realises he’s not wearing it. Of course he’s not wearing it, not after being stuck in Skellige for a year. Still, the realisation surprises her. Ameer always had a particular fondness for a glamarye made from oranges and jasmines, the scent simultaneously sweet and tart. He had told her that, by the mountain foothills where he grew up, he and his sisters would play among a grove of jasmine bushes, a subspecies of the flower that thrived in mountainous environments. The flower reminded him of his childhood. And so, he grew them in his house in Ofier’s capital city. He’d buy oranges from the market place, distil the jasmine oils, and craft a lotion for his own personal use. Jasmine and oranges, made with love and nostalgia.

She had been intrigued the first time she smelt it. Oranges don’t grow in the northern kingdoms, so any imports tend to come from Toussaint or Nilfgaard – meaning they’re an expensive fruit. Moreover, she had never smelt jasmines before meeting him. But soon, she became accustomed to him using this lotion. Now, she sorely misses its presence. It feels so…odd, not smelling that sweet, citric scent on him.

Not that she dares to bring it up. He doesn’t need to be reminded of yet another thing he has lost, something so routinely part of his identity.

“So, we have not really had the opportunity to speak about what you have done since we last saw each other.” Ameer says as he wades through the grime, thankfully not noticing her sombre realisation. “Suddenly, you have a witcher for a lover and a child who is filled with great magic. How did this happen? I am curious to know.”

He hasn’t asked before – in Skellige, they were so preoccupied with fruitlessly trying to figure out a cure for Geralt. It was inevitable he was going to ask at some point.

“Hm, I didn’t realise you were one for gossip, Ameer.”

“We both know that is a lie.” He says with a hint of humour. “You once called me the epitome of nosiness.”

“Oh, yes, I do remember that. And you once called me the stoniest lady in Nilfgaard.” Yennefer remembers fondly. “Ironic, since you’re less than willing to hand out information about yourself, too.”

“And, being a politician, your career centred around knowing everyone’s secrets and how to exploit them. It seems we are both hypocrites, Yennefer. And I will accept that today I am being ‘nosy’, for I am very curious to know more about yourself while we’ve been apart. Call it a part of my nature.”

“Hm. I suppose I can make an exception.” Maybe this will encourage him to open up more. “Just until we reach the drowners.”

“I am excited to hear you speak.”

“Well, for Geralt, it started with an incident involving a djin, one that almost went spectacularly badly if not for his intervention, though I never would have admitted it at the time. He made a wish, that our fates would always be intertwined. For a while, we had a rather tempestuous relationship. On and off, poor decisions. But, we overcame that. Fell…Gods, I hate to say it, it sounds so childish, but…we fell in love. Even when I removed the effect of the djin’s wish, we still remained in love.” She stops, feeling her emotions coming treacherously to the surface, emotions she’d rather not deal with. Time to move on. “As for Ciri, she’s obviously not our child by blood. She came under our care by the Law of Surprise. Are you familiar with that?”

“Yes. We do not have many monster slayer schools in Ofier, unlike these northern kingdoms, but we do have one. The School of the Falcon, who keep themselves well hidden somewhere in the steppes by magic. They are only one school, and they heard tales of northern schools and even Nilfgaardian schools being slain or destroyed, so they closely guard the secret of their location. I think a sorcerer helps to hide their school. And I have heard of this law. If reward cannot be paid, then the person in question must offer up the first thing seen in their house that they were not expecting. Is that correct?”

“Yes, exactly. We learnt quickly that Ciri had great power, which we tried our best to train her in. Unfortunately, that also caught a lot of people’s attention. The Aen Elle, the Lodge of Sorceresses, mages and rulers alike. In fact, one such individual was the man who almost killed poor Regis.”

“I see. And Ciri, she is now also a witcher?”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Wouldn’t any mother miss her daughter?” Yennefer says curtly. “But I know it’s what she wants, and she’s proved herself to be more than capable multiple times.”

“I see…” Ameer considers this. “You know, at one point, I did consider having children of my own.”

“Oh?” Now this could be a point of contention. The vulpess method of stealing elven children is one that no human or elder race could condone, and yet it is the only way their species can reproduce, and a method they have unquestioningly used for centuries.

“Yes. There are as many orphans in Ofier as there are in the northern kingdoms. We have our own wars and strife, particularly in times of severe drought. But I was never sure. I did not know if I would even be able to, if my magic would be strong enough. And I was scared, I suppose. I see many people die in hospitals, but seeing my own child die…I became frightened of such a thing happening.” His face falls. “Maybe it is a good job I did not, considering how it ended…”

Here it is. Finally, a natural and non-interrogative way to ask about what happened. “Why is that, Ameer?”

“It is…a complicated story. I…” He stops, frowning, and looks out across the tunnel. “Do you hear that?”

She listens carefully, hears that tell-tale noise of splashing water, something burrowing through mud. Curse it all! Just when she’d gotten close!

But these monsters need to be dealt with if they want any chance of speaking to Bedlam. It would be foolish to forget the most important task at hand – finding the other murderer, and interrogating them about Tye.

“Put me down.” Yennefer says softly, which Ameer does. “Can they see us?”

“No, they will not.”

“Even though there are so many of them?”

“Yes. As a rule, animals and monsters are much easier to trick with illusions than humans. Even fiends can be easily duped, but humans and the elder races are harder to deceive. The exceptions are higher vampires, like Regis. They are as difficult to trick as any human – though their vampire status does not give them any advantages over a human when it comes to recognising illusions.” He looks down the tunnel. “Anyway, these drowners will stop moving when we approach, as I bewitch them. If it is a large group, I may only be able to control half at a time, so we must be careful.”

Carefully, Yennefer’s lip curling as she wades through the sewage water, they approach the noise of moving water. Ameer knocks an arrow into his bow, his face taut in concentration.

Up ahead, where they could hear the splashing water, the surfaces of deep grimy puddles are suspiciously still. Yennefer knows enough about drowners to realise the monsters have burrowed down, spotting or hearing the two approaching, and are ready to attack.

She steps forwards once more, and sure enough, one of the ugly monsters bursts up from the water in front of her. It’s been a while since she’s seen such a monster up close like this. The webbed hands and filthy claws, disgusting teeth and bulging eyes, their swollen and distended blue bodies – it’s a sight Yennefer has no desire to see again. Before the drowner can swipe at her, it goes suddenly still. Not frozen, but it’s abrupt lack of movement is entirely unnatural. Four more drowners erupt on the surface, and each one goes still when Ameer lays his eyes on them. Wordlessly and swiftly, he draws his bow and fires a shot into the first drowner’s head. It squawks and drops heavily to the floor.

The noise attracts its hidden brethren, which claw their way to the surface in rage. Yennefer targets each one with a fire spell, scorching them while Ameer swiftly takes out the paralysed drowners with his arrows, never once missing.

Between her fire spells, his arrows, and his frankly unnerving ability to make the drowners stand still in their tracks and allow themselves to be killed, it doesn’t take them long to wipe the area of the monsters. When the waters go truly still, no gurgles or thrashing as drowners bury into the ground, Yennefer breathes out.

“Finally.” She wipes her brow. “That was rather annoying, wasn’t it?”

Ameer is retrieving his arrows from the drowners he felled, abandoning the broken shafts if needs be, and wiping the gore from the arrow heads on the mossy stones. “Yes, they are quick and agile creatures.” He glances down at their bodies. “Any other time, I would be tempted to salvage their bodies for ingredients – potions, alchemy and such things – but I dislike this sewer, and would rather leave quickly.”

“I can certainly second that opinion.” Yennefer looks wistfully down at her boots. Hopefully a thorough shoe shining will wash away the rest of the dirt. “Shall we –”

She pauses when she sees it, right next to her boot. Something small and metal, slightly warped and barely the size of her foot. Is she just seeing things wrong, or is that…

Frowning, she reaches down and picks it up, trying her best to rub off the dirt from it. No, she wasn’t wrong. Metal bars arranged in a grid, even a tiny lock by the side…

“Ameer, look at this.” She beckons him over and shows it to him. He frowns and takes it from her, examining it carefully.

“It looks like a small gate.” He remarks, surprised. “A tiny metal gate.” His description is accurate – the gate looks not unlike many that they passed through while walking in the sewers.

“Strange, isn’t it? Almost as if it belongs in a doll’s house.” Though no doll’s house she has ever seen features a metal barred gate like that. “And I can sense magic energy on it.”

“I do, as well. But I do not know what. Perhaps we should take it with us.” He pockets it, and together they begin the walk back to the grate.

By the time they return to the grate, Yennefer still hasn’t had the chance to bring up that question she asked before they found the drowners. Ameer keeps on talking about what he likes to use drowner ingredients for, other monster materials he uses in his potions, which are the hardest to find and why. Yennefer joins in with the discussion, a subject she can easily contribute to, but each attempt to bring the conversation back to why Ameer was glad he didn’t have children, what happened to make him feel that way, is unsuccessful. How immensely frustrating. When they met in Nilfgaard, while she had been scheming – playing a difficult balancing act of delving into dangerous situations for a high reward – Ameer had been a friendly face, providing fun and mischief in times of great stress and tension. How many times has he made her laugh? She misses that. She hates how sad and scared he’s been, so unlike himself. She hates to see him suffer so. How desperately she wishes she could fix this, banish his misery, let him feel light-hearted and happy once more. But how can she help him when she doesn’t know exactly what’s wrong? Such problems can’t be fixed easily, Yennefer knows that. It’ll take time and patience. She’s not naïve, and certainly no fool. But that doesn’t stop her from wishing she could.

When they climb up and re-enter the bath house, the bookkeeper is waiting for them.

“Well?” He peers past them. “Did you manage to kill them all?”

“Yes, we did.” Yennefer brushes off some dirt from her sleeves. “Is Mr Bedlam here?”

“He has returned, and is willing to speak to you. Please, follow me.”

The bookkeeper leads them back through the bath house, in front of a large oak door.

“Here. Mr Bedlam is waiting inside. Now, if you’d excuse me, I must go open the bath house again, before our customers get any more aggravated than they already are.”

When he leaves, Yennefer gives her clothes a final look over, straightening and brushing off dirt. She needs to look entirely in control and commanding. Making sure her appearance is pristine will lend well to that.

She doesn’t bother to prep Ameer, since he is smart enough to not say something stupid, and she will most likely do the talking if Ameer struggles to understand the man’s accent. Knocking twice and not waiting for a response, a deliberate show of confidence and urgency, Yennefer opens the door to the room and steps inside.

From floor to ceiling, each wall is fitted with bookcases, and each bookcase filled with tomes. The floor is fitted with the same marble tiles as the rest of the bath house, though these seem even cleaner, most probably thanks to the lack of customers walking in and out. Hidden by a corner, Yennefer spots a desk, illuminated by low candle light.

A bald man sits by the desk, leafing through documents and notices. There are small ornaments along the edge of the desk, pushed back by the ever-growing piles of papers. A duck, a cat, a horse – detailed and astoundingly well crafted, but an odd choice in paraphernalia for a previous crime boss.

The man, though stuffed into formal clothes not dissimilar to Dudu’s, still appears broad and well built. He glances up at Yennefer and Ameer as they walk in.

“I hear you’re the ones who dealt with my monster problem.” He says, looking back down at his papers, a frown on his face. Money problems?

“Indeed. And now we’d like an audience in return for our free work.” Yennefer folds her arms.

The man puts down his papers and stands up. “Of course. Forgive me for being rude. My name is Francis Bedlam. I run this establishment. And you, I assume, are Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“It seems my reputation precedes me.” Honestly, it’s not what Yennefer wanted. She’s still uneasy about being in this city, and doesn’t appreciate being recognised on sight as a sorceress.

“Of course. I’ve met many mages, many sorceresses, in my day.” No doubt when he was running the Putrid Grove, which Triss told her was somewhat of a haven for mages. “You begin to hear the gossip and rumours, which mages have been doing what. I heard a lot about you and your feats. I also heard you were running around with old Emhyr himself, reporting to the Nilfgaardians. So you should be right at home here in Novigrad.” He says this last part with a vague air of bitterness.

“That arrangement has long since come to a close.” She tells him. “I do no business with them now, nor do I have any desire to.”

He accepts this, nodding, and glances at Ameer. “And who are you, then?”

“Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation. My name is Ameer. I am a friend of Yennefer’s.”

Bedlam glances between the two of them. “What brings you here, then? So desperate to talk to me that you slaughtered some drowners?”

“We’re here about the murder of Parviz. A shop keeper, owner of Exotic Treasures.”

“Yes, I know the man. Such a shame.” She reads his thoughts. _Bloody moron._ “So you’re investigating his death? Am I a suspect?”

“No, not at all.” Yennefer keeps a calm and disinterested face as she lies. “We just heard you knew the man, lent money to him. Perhaps you could tell us more about him, about who might have killed him.”

_Oh, good. Still, I should be careful. I’ve heard enough about her to know she’s shrewd and smart_. Interesting. What is he hiding? “Well, if you did suspect me, I’d tell you that Parviz owed me money, and I therefore had no reason to kill him, since now I won’t get that money back. He had many enemies, though. The foolish bastard, may he rest in peace, was bad at business. Fired his business partner, the only one keeping the shop afloat, and pissed off many of his customers.”

“Yes, we saw his wares. They were…not very good.” Ameer remarks.

_If only they knew what’s below the shop._ Yennefer reads his irritated thoughts. _Can’t believe the prick hid that from me for so long._ “It’s all right, you can say they were shit. Because they were.” He grabs a piece of parchment and dips his quill in ink. “If you’d like to know who to speak to, here’s a list.”

A list that they already have, thanks to the complaints they found at his desk, but Yennefer feigns graciousness all the same.

“Thank you.”

“So, the Nilfgaardians really haven’t set you up for this?” Bedlam asks, somewhat suspiciously, as he writes. “They’re pretty eager to get this murder solved."

“No, they haven’t. This is something of a…personal matter. Why are they so eager to solve this murder, as you say?”

Bedlam smiles wryly. “Well, it’s something that perhaps I would know about directly, if I had been involved in the black market and been acquainted with previous gang leaders. But I wasn’t, so I heard about it from someone else.”

“Of course.” Yennefer plays along with his caution. “Because you had no involvement with any such things.”

“Exactly. But, one hears things. When the Nilfgaardians took over, first thing they did was dismantle the Church of Eternal Fire, took over all their businesses and confiscated their funds. Probably the best thing they’ve done. The whoresons got what was coming to them.” He shakes his head. “If they hadn’t been stopped, no doubt every non-human, mage and even herbalist would’ve been executed.”

“So we’ve heard.” Hattori, the blacksmith from this morning, Corinne Tilly, and even Zoltan, would either have been brutally murdered by now, or would have fled from Novigrad. Even Dudu could’ve been exposed and burnt at the stake.

“Yeah, and they didn’t go down easy, either. Some of them started a pathetic attempt of rebellion against their new rulers. It was brought down very quickly and ruthlessly. Then, the Nilfgaardians turned their attention to the underground. Made quick work of petty thieves and organised crime alike. The nooses were very busy, let me tell you. Those who were smart moved their businesses else where, or tried to live an honest life.”

People like him, Yennefer muses. Buying the bath houses and moving onto a legitimate business was a smart move from him.

“Anyway, the Nilfgaardians suspected that Parviz had ties to the underworld. Peddled some stolen goods, and that was the least of it, let me tell you. But they never had any evidence to incriminate him.” _Good job they didn’t. If they found his stash and took the transmutator, we’d be fucked right now._

“That is a nice ornament you have.” Ameer speaks up suddenly. “Is it a cat?” What is he doing? Why is he derailing the conversation like this?

Bedlam swivels it around for them to see more clearly, a detailed sculpture made from black jet and brushed with bronze. Yennefer can see the creator even went to the bother to carve claws, teeth, whiskers. “Yeah, I got it from a merchant. Made all the way in Zerrikania. It’s a panther.”

A panther. Yennefer hides the realisation from her face, something she is quite experienced at. That’s why Ameer brought it up. He spotted it and made the connection to her vision.

“It is very nice.” Ameer continues, trying to make the conversation casual. “Very detailed.”

“We won’t keep you much longer.” This can’t be a coincidence. “Just one more question, so we can confidently exclude you from any suspicion. Where were you yesterday at two in the morning?”

“I was with Happen, here at the bath house.”

“…Happen?”

“The bookkeeper who showed you in. He worked here when old Dijkstra ran the place. He can vouch for me.”

An employee who was kept on when Dijkstra died and not tossed to the Nilfgaardians for his association with criminals…no doubt a man who would lie to protect his employer.

“I see. We thank you for your time, it’s been very useful.”

“I’m happy to help.” _Thank God she didn’t catch on. _“I hope you find his killer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a very full day of business to attend to.”

As soon as they’re out of ear shot from the bath house, Yennefer turns to Ameer urgently.

“He’s definitely the murderer. The panther from the vision – it can’t be a coincidence. And when I read this thoughts, he mentioned the transmutator.”

“So, for whatever reason, he needed the transmutator. He must have broken in to steal it, and ended up killing Parviz.” Ameer says excitedly.

“His thoughts were incredibly guilty. He was definitely hiding something, and now we know what. We just need to find clear evidence, that bookkeeper will probably lie to cover him. We should go find Regis, report the news. He can help us find some way to prove Bedlam wasn’t at the bath house at the time of the murder. Maybe the ravens saw him.”

“What about this?” Ameer takes out the tiny gate. “How does this fit in?”

Yennefer frowns. “I still don’t know. Regis has been around for 400 years, he might have a better clue than either of us. Let’s get back to the Chameleon.”

As they quickly walk down the streets to return Dandelion’s inn, Yennefer both feels relieved and disappointed. Relieved to have solved this nonsense so quickly, but disappointed she wasn’t able to get more out of Ameer. Well, at least he seemed to enjoy himself. He certainly loves that new bow.

Next to her, Ameer suddenly stops. He pauses, and veers off to a side street without a word, crouching down.

“Ameer? What is it?” She follows him, and then sees what he’s doing. A red fox sits in front of him, making those strange ‘clek clek’ noises. Its fur is almost as muddy as Yennefer’s boots.

“What is it saying?” She asks.

He hesitates, still listening to its chatter, then speaks up. “She wants help with her cubs. They have fallen and she cannot reach them. This morning, I spread the word to the foxes about Parviz’s death, and asked them to tell me if they saw anything strange in the early morning when he died. She says she has news, but she wants help first.”

“Well, we’d better go help her.” This day is getting better and better.

The vixen leads them down the streets, sticking to the shadows away from the crowds of people. Eventually, it stops by the broken bridge just north of Dandelion’s inn. The entrance has been barricaded off, and Yennefer sees workers busily fixing the damaged bridge. The fox sits by the edge of the street, just before the drop into the river, and begins crying out.

“Ah, here.” Without a thought, Ameer slowly climbs down to the river bank, ignoring the puzzled looks of passer-bys. Yennefer peers over the edge and sees three kits, muddy and miserable, shivering and huddled together on the edge of the river bank. One, upon seeing its mother, tries to climb up the bank, but slips down immediately, almost landing in the water.

“Oh no!” Ameer then croons in Ofieri, which Yennefer assumes translates to something akin to ‘poor cute things!’ “Yennefer, take them from me.”

Yennefer would expect the kits to scatter upon being approached and touched, but they crowd around his feet, mewing excitedly. He scoops one up and lifts it, passing it to her on the ledge. The kit squirms in her hand, and she quickly places it next to the vixen, who licks it thoroughly and happily.

One by one, he passes over the kits, then climbs up back the bank. Yennefer helps pull him up, and then he leans down by the vixen. She chirps again, shakes herself, and begins to trot away, carrying the smallest kit in her mouth. The other two kits trot along behind her.

Ameer watches them with a smile, then turns to Yennefer. “She saw Bedlam, here on this bridge, in the early morning of the murder.”

“So he was lying.” Then Yennefer frowns. “Wait, I thought the bridge was closed because of damage.”

“Yes. He met with another person, who wore a cloak and she did not recognise. The person had a sword. She says that there was suddenly a terrible noise, so she ran away. When she returned, the sword was large.”

Yennefer frowns blankly for a moment. “…The sword was large?”

“Yes. Very large. It damaged the bridge from its weight. They seemed to be panicking. The horrible noise came again, so she ran away once more. And when she returned again, the sword was back to being its normal size.”

“…Are you sure the vixen got that right? Are you sure there wasn’t any…mistranslation here?”

“Yes, I am. No mistranslation. And she was certain of what she saw.”

Yennefer thinks hard about this. “…Well, if you’re entirely certain, then I trust the information to be correct. Besides, a giant sword, and this tiny gate…perhaps they’re related.” How bizarre.

At the Chameleon, they wait in the warmth of the inn for Regis to return. Ameer examines the small gate carefully in the meantime, though apart from its size and the vague magic traces, there doesn’t seem to be anything intrinsically unusual about it.

Soon, the door opens, and Regis arrives with Priscilla. Both look excited, and both hurry to Yennefer and Ameer when they spot them.

“Yennefer, Ameer, I come with good news.” He tells them. “We think we’ve found out who the murderer is.”

“Isn’t that great? Now we can help Dandelion and Zoltan, and you can find Tye!” Priscilla exclaims.

Wait, what?

Yennefer and Ameer exchange a puzzled glance. Upon seeing their expressions, Regis frowns in his own confusion.

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased.” He asks.

“We thought we had found the murderer.” Ameer explains.

“Oh. Oh dear. Well, this is rather awkward.” Regis says somewhat sheepishly.

“No, no, tell us what you found out.” Yennefer urges him.

He nods. “How about we pull up a chair? We’ve got a lot to cover.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For Elder Speech, I've translated it into Irish - probably inaccurately lol)  
\- Hello! It's nice to meet you.  
\- I'm glad to meet another Aen Seidhe. I'm pleased to see that northern Aen Seidhe look the same as Ofieri Aen Seidhe
> 
> \- She's right, my friend
> 
> \- Farewell!


	11. Ravens

_“ -What was that?_

_ -A raven. Rather a common sight at this latitude. Very intelligent fowl. I asked him to look for the creatures you mentioned. Him and his brethren.” – A conversation between Geralt and Regis._

The air is sharp and brisk in the streets of Novigrad when Regis sets out with Priscilla, a list of bitter associates and unhappy customers in his hands.

“The morning certainly has taken a cold turn, hasn’t it?” He remarks as they walk: past crowds of people all donned in heavy coats, hats and gloves to handle the sudden cold snap, crystal necklaces hanging out from under their scarves; past stalls selling apples, peaches, onions, cabbages, some ideally fresh and perfect while others more bruised and overripe; past stands laid out with fresh fish on layers of ice, each cut and skinned to show their pink flesh, its current customer a brown tabby cat who sits and meows by the stand relentlessly until given a sliver of fish by the owner. Apart from the odd Nilfgaardian soldier on patrol, the town looks entirely normal. Charming, even. Any human who didn’t know the recent history of the city would be surprised to hear about the pogroms and witch hunts, the violence and cruel murders. But Regis himself was not surprised to hear it when Geralt told him, and he imagines that any elf, dwarf or halfling would not be surprised either, so used to slaughters and violence at the hands of humans in the name of race, territory and war.

“Yes, though you don’t look very cold.” Priscilla muses, correct in her assumption. She’s wearing gloves and a dark green coat, her breath coming out in condensation. “Is that because…of your upbringing?”

He knows what she’s referring to. “Yes, all people with my…upbringing aren’t bothered by cold weather. Not really.”

“I see. On an entirely unrelated note, may I ask you some questions about vampires, since you’re so well read?” She says that for the benefit of any eavesdroppers.

“Of course.”

“Well, I know that most tales about vampires are incorrect. Stakes through the heart, holy water, garlic, that’s all nonsense. Is that the same about sunlight, too? It must be, because…” She gestures to him. “And yet, I’ve heard tales from sources – legitimate sources – about certain nocturnal vampires, or ones that hide in caves and such things.”

“Both assumptions are correct. You see, there are many different types of vampires, each with different characteristics. Are you familiar with them?”

“Let’s see…I know there are very powerful higher vampires, obviously. And I’ve heard of other types, ones that look like giant bats, but I don’t know much else. I haven’t written a lot about vampires, you see.”

“Vampires are categorised into two main groups – lesser and higher. It’s rather crude, but it works well enough in distinguishing the types. Lesser vampires are the least intelligent. They act on animalistic instinct and not much else. Sunlight hurts them, resulting in nocturnal behaviours and feeding times, and they are vulnerable to a witcher’s blade. However, that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous. Very dangerous, in fact. Garkains and Fledders could easily kill even a witcher, if they were careless or wounded. And any normal human or elder race would be killed very easily.” He decides to leave out the example of the Garkain that murdered Orianna’s entire orphanage in Toussaint. Better not to speak of abhorrent things out in the public.

“Then there’s higher vampires, which can be split into two more groups. Perhaps you have heard of katakans, alps and bruxae. They have no sensitivity to sun light, and are intelligent enough to adopt human forms in place of more bat-like or bestial ones. In fact, some can pose as humans convincingly enough to fool most people, even witchers on occasion. However, they can still be permanently killed by a witcher. And then, there’s true higher vampires. People like…Dandelion’s friend. They don’t need blood to survive, though many will choose to drink it, and they take on human forms most convincingly. Their power is significantly more than that of any other higher vampire, but the true difference that separates them is their immortality. No blade, no fire, nothing can kill a true higher vampire, due to their impressive regenerative powers. However, if a fellow higher vampire were to deliver the fatal blow, then regeneration is not possible. Death becomes permanent.”

Instantly, he thinks of Dettlaff, and the thought pierces and obliterates him more savagely than any blade could. No. He can’t think of such things, no matter how the memory torments him like some chronic illness. He has a job to do and he can’t be wallowing in his own guilt and grief.

“Ah, I see.” He clings to her words, grateful for a shallow distraction. “There was a vampire here around four years ago. He looked exactly like a human – he was actually the coroner, and no one realised his true nature. But Geralt killed him. So, that would be a higher vampire, but not a true higher vampire, like Dandelion’s friend?”

“Indeed. This is the first I have heard of the incident, but I assume the vampire was most likely a katakan.” He glances at Priscilla. “Why do you ask, my dear?”

“I was just curious. The vampire I mentioned, he was actually a serial killer. It’s why Geralt killed him. And I was one of victims – attempted, of course.”

She says it so casually, with absolute nonchalance on her face. Regis stares in surprise at her. Most humans quake at the thought of death, yet she looks entirely unaffected by the whole thing.

“Oh. I’m…terribly sorry to hear such a thing happened.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “I will admit, it was frightening at the time. I was jumped in the streets, but I managed to get away before he did too much. He poured some formaldehyde down my throat,” she touches it gently, “but the damage wasn’t irreversible. I have to rub a special cream on my neck every morning, or else it can begin to ache.” Indeed, he can smell chamomile and bergamot behind her woollen scarf. “But I can still sing. That’s the most important thing.”

“Why did he do such a thing?”

“I critiqued the Church of Eternal Fire in my songs and poems. Turns out he was quite a fan of the Church and didn’t take kindly to that kind of…blasphemy. I was one of the lucky ones. Others were tortured to death. But, here I am. My throat has healed and I can sing again, and I survived. He didn’t. So, who got the last laugh in the end?”

“Well, I am relieved to hear that you recovered well, and that such an unusually sadistic individual is no longer with us.” He glances at her, but spots no ill-will towards him on her face. She doesn’t even seem vaguely uneasy about walking with him, despite his own vampiric status.

“I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She guesses and interrupts his thoughts. “Dandelion told me about you, how you helped him and Geralt all those years ago.”

“I see.” He smiles. “I’m glad.”

Not long after, they reach their first destination: Barney’s Jewellery Emporium. The shop isn’t as large as Exotic Treasures, but significantly cleaner and well kept. The paint on the sign and name of the shop is pristine, as if it had been painted only recently – a circle of diamonds and brightly coloured jewels arranged in a circle around the words. A couple peer through the display window, admiring a multitude of crystal necklaces, not unlike the one Priscilla wears.

“Here we are.” Priscilla looks at the list, and points. “Barney’s brother, Filip, works here now.”

“Yes, he used to work with Parviz. Surprising, since he and his brother were business competitors. But Parviz ultimately fired him, for whatever reason, and needless to say, Filip was less than thrilled about this. He sent in some rather angry and rude letters to Parviz.”

“I haven’t spoken with Filip myself, so I can’t say if he’d be the murderous type.” Priscilla tells him. “Let’s find out.”

Regis opens the door, hearing a bell ring loudly above him, and holds open the door for Priscilla. She hurries in thankfully, grateful for some relief against the chill outside.

“Thank you.” She rubs her hands together, cold even with her gloves on.

“Not at all, my dear. After all, you get colder than I do, owing to my…upbringing.” He glances around the interior. Like Parviz’s shop, thick glass cases are laid out with secure locks, but unlike Parviz’s shop, the contents are entirely authentic. Silver necklaces embedded with rubies, emeralds, sapphires, gold earrings with pearls, rings with heavy diamond stones…Regis isn’t particularly familiar with the study of such rocks, but they all look real and of good quality. What really catches his eye, though, aren’t the expensive necklaces and precious stones, but the multitude of crystal necklaces. The largest ones, made from delicate amethyst and quartz, are locked away in the glass safes, though many hang from stands on the counters, swaying almost imperceptibly. The crystal is secured to a thick black cord by silver clasps, the cord knotted in a way that the user can easily adjust the length of the necklace. Simple, and yet Regis has observed these necklaces several times among the citizens of Novigrad, even on the short journey between the Chameleon and the Emporium.

From the other side of the counter, a man walks out of a back room and calls out. “Greetings! Welcome to the Jewellery Emporium!” He smiles when he sees Priscilla. He’s a large man in both height and weight, with a brown beard and blue eyes upon a good humoured and friendly face. However, Regis spots a vicious looking scar, gnarled and poorly healed, on the side of his face. “Well, if it isn’t Callonetta, gracing my humble store! Welcome back!”

“Thank you, Barney. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” She smiles.

“How may I help you today? Looking for any additions to your necklace? I’ve just had a shipment of new red crystals, perhaps you’d like to have a look? You’d be the first customer to do so!”

“Red crystals? Hm. I think I will have a look, Barney. Though, is Filip around?”

“Filip?” Barney looks slightly confused. “Yes, he’s in the back. Would you like to speak to him?”

“Actually, my friend here would like to.” Priscilla gestures to Regis. “If that’s all right.”

“No, that’s perfectly fine. Let me just fetch him.” Barney disappears into the back of the store, and returns with another man. He’s as tall as his brother, but not quite as well built. His face has a gaunt shrewdness to it; a sharpness about his eyes. He looks rather surprised to be called out.

“Are you Filip?” Regis clarifies.

“I am. And you are…”

“My name is Regis. I’m here about this letter,” he passes it to him, “and I’d appreciate it if we could discuss this at some length.” Perhaps this interrogation will ease the heavy burden hanging on his mind, in the form of black hair, a golden moth brooch, and firm hands that nursed him back to health.

Filip gives the letter a quick glance over, his face tightening. He turns to Barney. “I’ll talk to him outside. Don’t want to get in the way of business.”

Barney frowns at the letter. “What’s that, then?”

“A new notice from the gwent club.” He lies. Interesting. His brother doesn’t know about the threatening letter, and it seems Filip would rather keep it that way.

“What, has Havel finally gotten sick of you borrowing his best cards to swindle newcomers?” Barney says with amusement.

“Something like that.” Filip waves his hand dismissively. “I won’t be long.”

Outside, leaving Priscilla to browse the crystals with Barney, Filip walks a small distance away from the shop, shivering in the cold.

“I knew when I was called, it’d be for something like this.” He gives Regis a wary glance up and down. “I run the business side of things, the finance and numbers. Barney talks to the customers, he’s a good salesman. So people don’t normally see me, have no reason to speak with me. I thought maybe you were going to be a Nilfgaardian solider, but you don’t look like one.”

“You would be correct. I have no associates within Nilfgaard, nor any loyalty to it. I am simply here on my own business. Though, the fact you knew someone was going to find this letter and question you in the light of Parviz’s death certainly intrigues me.”

Filip signs, rubbing his temples. “Look, I didn’t kill Parviz. I know…the letter looks bad. But I can explain.”

Regis crosses his arms. “Go on, then. My ears are cocked. Explain to me your side of the story, regarding the…colourful vocabulary within this letter.”

Again, Filip sighs. “…Ok. A few years back, I had a falling out with my family. A big one. And I left. I was renting out an apartment, but I was running out of money fast, like one does in Novigrad.”

That makes sense. Free city though it may be called, Novigrad certainly isn’t a forgiving one – or a cheap one, for that matter.

“I was a few crowns away from losing rent, being tossed onto the street, when I saw a notice in Exotic Treasures, looking for an assistant. Yes, it was my brother’s main rival, but I was angry with him, and desperate for money. So I applied and got the job. But I rose in the ranks, became more than just an assistant. Soon, we were almost running the place together. My business sense saved the shop from bankruptcy multiple times, and Parviz was saying he’d make us official business partners.”

“…You know, I’ve heard rumours. That Parviz had a secret stash of…rather illegal wares in his shop. Since you worked there, do you know anything about it?” Regis asks.

Filip frowns. “Hm…He did like to disappear into his office for long stretches of time. Once I went in and he wasn’t there, but later he claimed he’d been there the entire time. So I’m not sure. Didn’t see anything, but I always suspected he had a secret room hidden somewhere in there.”

Regis studies his face, but is unsure whether or not the man is lying. After all, he is a business man, and business men are notoriously skilled in the art of lying.

“Well, if he was going to ask you to be his partner, how did he end up firing you?”

“Redania fell and the Black Ones attacked.” He answers, his face turning into a scowl. “Parviz decided he couldn’t keep me on anymore. Chucked me out, even though I saved his shop more than once. He chucked me out without a second thought.”

“So I gathered, from the contents of the letter.” Regis remarks.

“It was rough, you know. This time, I really did run out of money. I was homeless. Kept on trying to apply to jobs, but with the chaos of the invasion, I couldn’t find any work. And the Black Ones were executing people left, right and centre. Criminals, rebels, even homeless beggars – like me. I was afraid they’d take me. Then Barney found me. He took me in. Even though we’d argued, even though I’d said terrible things, he took me in. And soon, I became his business partner.” He holds up his hands. “There. That’s what happened between us.”

Hm. His bluntness and willingness to lay out all the facts makes Regis somewhat suspicious. He’s seen this before, people with deliberate and aggressive honesty who use it to mask a darker secret beneath the surface. Their supposed co-operation is designed to make the interrogator trust them.

“Please excuse my bluntness, but it sounds as if you have more than enough reason to kill Parviz. While any Nilfgaardian soldier would no doubt be raiding your own shop right now in search of evidence, I am going to request you explain to me why it wasn’t you.” If his story sounds too suspicious, if there are odd details than don’t fit, if he spots any vague semblance of a panther, then he’ll stop being so courteous. If this man truly is innocent, then he supposes he feels somewhat guilty. But this is for Geralt, so his guilt is minimal, and he is willing to do far worse if it means saving his dear friend. 

Filip’s face goes taut, but he nods. “I know. I know how it looks. But I didn’t kill him. Not out of business, we were doing fine.”

“Yes, I was wondering about that.” Regis remarks. “These are rough times, no doubt. New invaders and a new way of living must put people under stress – financially, in particular. And yet, your shop is doing remarkably well. In my experience, citizens prefer to save their money for necessities. Food, clothes and the like. Yet your shop, which sells extravagant luxuries, seems to be facing no financial problems.”

Filip gives something of a short laugh. “You know, you’re right. People are stressed. Miserable. And you know what miserable people do, when they can’t do anything about the main problem? They find other ways to make them feel good about themselves. Like shopping. And yes, our previous goods would be far too expensive for a comfort spend in this economy right now. That’s why I introduced the crystal necklaces.”

“I’ve seen many citizens in this fine city wearing these crystals. What about them is so popular?”

“For starters, they’re cheap. For us – we found a supplier who makes them for a very good price, they’re not real or expensive crystals – and they’re cheap for our customers, even though the stone itself looks expensive. That, and they can mix and match – we sell crystals of different sizes and all can be added into the cord quite easily. It makes it customisable, to be tailored to an individual’s interest. People buy the necklaces, and it makes them feel classy without spending too much money, and that makes them happy.”

“I see. And you thought of this?”

“I did. Like I said, I have a good business head.”

“And yet, Parviz fired you. Like I’ve said before, this seems plenty of motive to me.”

Filip rolls his eyes at this remark. “No, I did not kill him out of some quest for vengeance. I didn’t need to. I had vengeance already.”

“Please elaborate for me.”

“Without me, his shop fell apart. I know he was having money problems, borrowed from loan sharks. He was fucked, basically. And he wouldn’t have gotten into that mess if he hadn’t fired me. Let me tell you, it was very vindicating.”

“Hm.” Regis frowns. “Tell me, where were you at 2 in the morning yesterday?”

“Filip?”

Regis turns to see a woman only ten yards away from them, holding the hand of a small child. She wears a purple dress and fur hat, though peeking out beneath the fur and through her black ringlets of hair, Regis spots a pointed ear. A she-elf. She spots him looking and, nervously, tucks the hat over the ear point. A young lad, probably only eight summers old, hangs onto her other gloved hand and holds a wicker basket in the other hand, watching the scene with confusion.

“Filip, what’s going on?” The she-elf asks nervously.

“Lena.” Filip quickly steps forwards, Regis all but forgotten. “What’re you doing here?”

“I brought fresh bread and cheese for you and Barney. You forgot to take your lunches.” She gestures to the basket. “Filip, who is this man?”

“He’s someone from the gwent club.” Filip says hastily. “A friend of Havel’s. Havel’s leaving to go back to Kovir soon, he wants some of his cards that I borrowed back.”

Frowning, Lena leans down to the young boy. “Freddy, go and give dad his lunch.” When the boy leaves the scene, the door bell ringing as he enters the shop, Lena looks upon Regis and Filip suspiciously.

“This isn’t about gwent, is it?” She asks, staring at Regis. “Why were you asking where he was at 2 in the morning yesterday?”

“I’m here about Parviz.” Regis answers calmly.

“Parviz…The man who was murdered.” Lena realises. “I knew this wasn’t about gwent. Who are you? Do you work for the Nilfgaardians?”

“No, not at all.”

Lena frowns. “Well, I’m sorry to inform you that Filip isn’t the murderer. He stayed over with me and Barney at our house all night, going through paper work.” Then she folds her arms, looking at Filip in irritation. “So? What did you do to make this man think you’re a murderer?”

“I didn’t do anything!” He insists. When her frown doesn’t change, though, he looks away sheepishly. “I sent a rude letter to him. That’s all.”

“A rude letter? Filip! If Parviz started showing off some rude or threatening letter you sent to him, it could be bad for Barney’s business!”

He sighs, abashed. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

“Next time, please do.” She implores him. “For Barney’s sake, for my sake, and for Freddy’s sake.”

He nods, looking immensely guilty. When she leaves, entering the shop to see her husband, he rubs his forehead and sighs deeply.

“…I was an idiot, sending that letter. It was the anniversary of when Parviz kicked me out, and I almost died on the streets. Saw a lot of terrible things out there, things I’d rather forget. So I got very drunk one night, and wrote it without even thinking of the consequences. But the last thing I want is to cause trouble for Barney and Lena.”

“Cause trouble?”

“Look. I know what happens to criminals in this city now. The Black Ones are merciless. They’re quick to make assumptions, put people to death without a second thought.” He stares at the shop. “Barney’s been through a rough time. Shortly after I left, our folks died. Then there were all the racist attacks four years ago.” His face darkens. “They killed Lena’s sister. Strung up her corpse with the other non-humans in Hierarch’s Square for everyone to see. A bunch of whoresons broke into the shop, tried to rape and kill Lena herself. Barney and I managed to stop them, but he got that big scar on his face. And I got this.” He pulls up his shirt, and Regis sees a long and ugly scar marring his flesh.

“Imagine what is was like for them. Imagine having to tell your own son why you got that scar, why he wasn’t allowed to go to school anymore. They almost left Novigrad for their own safety, but the Black Ones came and destroyed the Church. Even now, though, they’re still afraid of racist attacks. Lena could barely stand to be in the house. Me and Barney saved up as much money as we could, so they could move to a new house. Helped pick it out myself, get a discount. It was the least I could do, after they took me back in.” He shakes his head. “They’ve been through enough, and I’m not gonna mess up their lives by bringing the wrath of the Black Ones down on them. So, no. I didn’t kill Parviz. I didn’t need to, I didn’t want to, and I didn’t want to risk myself or my brother and his family.” He steps away from Regis. “I was with Lena and Barney in the house all night. I didn’t kill him.”

“…I understand.” This lead is dead, as much as Regis hates to admit it. Interrogating the man won’t get him any closer to solving this mystery.

Filip sighs and shakes his head, fixing Regis with a puzzled stare. “Why do you care about Parviz, anyway? Are you a friend of his or something?”

“No. But he knew someone I’m looking for. Have you seen a man with brown hair, wearing a strip of red cloth across his forehead, going by the name of Tye?”

Filip shakes his head. “Haven’t heard of him. Is that all? I need to get back to work.”

“…That’s all. You can go now.”

With that, Filip returns to the shop, looking rather disgruntled by the whole conversation. Well, asking someone if they’re a murderer is never going to be a comfortable, polite conversation.

When Filip is gone, Regis scans the streets for any ravens. He spies one, not on the roofs or the skies, but by a small wagon outside the shop. The raven is caught in one of the wheels, flapping its wings in a miserable attempt to dislodge itself from the wooden bars that trap it.

Poor thing. Regis leans down and takes it carefully in his hands. The raven squirms desperately, thinking Regis is an attacker.

_Never fear. I’m just trying to help you._ He calms it.

Carefully, twisting the raven’s body slightly to the side, pulling back on the spoke of the wheel, he’s able to create enough room to pull the raven out. Once freed, the raven shakes itself and preens its ruffled feathers. Looking up at Regis, it caws happily.

_Thank you! Vampire friend thank you!_ It’s somewhat smaller than most of the other ravens he’s seen, so perhaps it must be young. It has a single white feather amongst its glossy black breast. Regis holds out his arm and the raven hops onto it, perching on his forearm. Not wanting to stand out, he walks quickly down an alleyway with the raven. Despite the lack of the witch hunts, he still feels nervous in such a big city. Hiding his vampiric nature amongst crowds of people, even with his herbs to mask his scent from dogs and animals, is exponentially harder in an urban setting than a rural one.

_Vampire! Raven like vampire!_ The raven croaks loudly.

_Greetings. I must ask you a few questions about the man who works at this shop._ There's no harm in double checking the alibi.

_Big beard man? Smart man?_

_The smart man._

_Smart man love elf woman! Smart man sad elf woman love big beard man._

Hm. An interesting but ultimately useless piece of gossip, so Regis doesn’t ask any further into it.

_Where was he last morning, at two hours past midnight?_

_Smart man with elf woman and big beard man at house all night. _

_All night? Did they leave at all?_

_No! I stay there all night with raven friends, I see no leave!_

So Lena was telling the truth – Filip’s alibi stands. The likelihood of Filip being Parviz’s killer has just dwindled from improbable to impossible, for a raven would have no reason to lie.

_Why vampire sad? _The raven suddenly asks.

Regis hesitates, not expecting such a question. But he answers it. _I miss my friends._

The raven cocks its head. _Vampire go see friends!_

_I can’t. One of my friends is dead, and the other is ill. And I miss them._

The raven pauses, then hops further up Regis’ arm. It nuzzles his face affectionally with its feathered head.

_Raven like vampire. Vampire help raven. Raven vampire friend. Raven help vampire! _It flaps its wings excitedly.

Regis can't help but smile. _Thank you, my friend. I appreciate that. _

He hears the sound of a bell ringing, and a moment later a voice calls out. “Regis? Where are you?”

The raven flies up to the roof tops, and Regis walks out of the alleyway. He sees Priscilla outside the shop. Her necklace now has some new additions – two smaller red crystals hang on either side of the green one.

“Oh, there you are. How did it go?” She glances back at the shop. “Filip seemed a little angry. Did everything go all right?”

“Ultimately, it ended without any significant incidence.” That’s not to say it went well. “He gave me various reasons why he isn't the murderer, and why he had no motive. I'm not sure if I'd believe him, but his sister-in-law gave him an alibi. He's not the murderer - unfortunately for us, and I've double checked the alibi.”

“Really? How did you do that?”

“I spoke to a raven.” He looks up, where the raven sits on the sign post of the shop. “He claims that Filip didn't leave his house at all on the night, and early morning, of the murder. And I didn’t manage to see any relation to panthers. Did you?”

“I didn’t, either. But we have a long way to go until we’re at the end of that list.”

-

Together, with the raven flying overhead, Regis and Priscilla visit the names on the list one by one. Some take longer than others – Priscilla doesn’t know the address of each individual, so sometimes they have to ask other passerbys – but it’s certainly faster with two people than if Regis was by himself. Or rather, three.

At each stop, they speak to customers who were left dissatisfied with Parviz’s wares: a man who gave his fiancé a ring, believing it to be real silver until they saw the unsightly green band on her finger; an angry father and mother who bought a pocket watch for their son’s eighteenth birthday, only for it to fall apart immediately; a Nilfgaardian woman who bought a fur coat to brave the cold Novrigad weather, which then gave her an unpleasant rash. Malfunctioning wares, scarves that left stains on clothes, jewellery that broke after only two uses – Regis becomes convinced that if Parviz hadn’t been killed by Tye and his accomplice, the man would either be in jail or be driven out the city.

Each time they visit a suspect, Regis discreetly heads outside to speak to the raven, which has been busy conversing with other ravens in the area. It lands on his arm and reports back to Regis what it has learnt about the suspect in question from its feathered brethren. Where they were at the time of the murder, who they were with, what they were doing. It’s exceedingly useful, and allows Regis to determine whether or not their alibi is true or false.

So far, each one has been true. None of these customers murdered Parviz. Name after name, they exclude the suspects, until only one name remains.

“Your raven friend is a very helpful little fellow.” Priscilla remarks, watching it fly from rooftop to rooftop. “Do ravens like all vampires?”

This part of the town is significantly emptier, with no stalls or shops to be seen, only homes. Some are more dilapidated than others. Since there are few people around, he answers the question with no coyness or code. “Hm…I suppose it’s more that they tolerate us in ways other animals won’t. They’re smart enough to see through our disguises, regardless of any herbs or remedies we choose to use, and they’re smart enough to know that we have no reason or desire to hurt them. They’re very intelligent birds, you see. Most ravens are either friendly to me, or at least willing to carry out favours and deliver messages for me.” He looks at the raven up ahead, which is perching on a stone wall, waiting for them. “This one seems particularly friendly.”

Priscilla reaches into her purse and takes out a cloth tied into a pouch. Undoing the knot, she offers two slices of bread, some cheese and an assortment of nuts to him.

“No thank you.” He doesn’t technically need it, and dislikes taking food from other humans who do. However, Priscilla takes the nuts and slowly approaches the raven, holding them out on the flat of her hand.

The raven looks at her, then looks at Regis. _Friend?_ It croaks.

_Yes, she’s a friend._ At his response, the raven flaps its wings and pecks the nuts from Priscilla’s hand.

A smile creeps onto her face. “Can’t say I’ve ever done this before. Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Male, I think.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Yes, most likely. But ravens don’t tend to introduce themselves to me when I speak to them. They have other ways of identifying each other, in ways we can’t really comprehend.”

“Well, how about you give him a name? Just so that you can tell me which raven is which.”

Regis smiles. “Hm. Perhaps I will. I shall have a thorough think, to see which name suits him the most.”

“So, ravens can see through your disguises…Can any other animals see through them? Obviously humans can’t, since none of us had any clue the coroner was really a vampire.”

“Hm…wolves and dogs have very keen senses – even better than we vampires, in fact, so they most frequently see through our disguises.”

Priscilla looks around the streets. “I don’t see any here right now. If we come across one, do you want me to chase it away?”

“Never fear. I made sure to collect an abundance of herbs this morning, so no dogs will be able to discern my true identity.” A fact that Ameer has confirmed – Fox Mothers, owing to their fox-like forms, have better senses of smells than dogs, and if he couldn’t smell Regis’s vampiric blood, then no dog should be able to either. “Now, may I ask you something?”

“Go on.”

“How should I best phrase this…are you and Dandelion…”

“We’re currently together.” She confirms without waiting to hear his full question.

“I see.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well…You seem to be a very sensible, responsible woman, and Dandelion…he’s not exactly mature when it comes to the realm of romance, despite it being his main source of ballads.”

“That’s true. Actually, I’ve sent him packing once already.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Priscilla shakes her head. “This was a few years ago. I caught him in the company of another woman, with his hands in places they really shouldn’t be. I tossed him out and told him not to come back. We hadn’t even been in a rough patch of our relationship, that’s what really enraged me.”

Regis sighs. “I’m afraid Dandelion can be completely incorrigible when it comes to his engagements with the fairer sex. He has absolutely no sense or decency about him at times. But I assume he somehow made it up to you?”

“I saw him about a month later. He’d just come off a ship from Ofier, looking in a terrible state.”

Ofier…Ameer’s homeland. “What on earth was he doing in Ofier?”

“Oh, that’s a long story, involving a magical teleporting trunk…Anyway, he came to me, on his knees, begging me to take him back, swearing he would never run to another woman’s arms as long as he lived. I flat out refused at first. But he came back, again and again, bearing gifts and singing all sorts of songs. He never does that for the other women who throw him out.”

“And so you took him back?”

Priscilla laughs at this. “Oh, no. I’m not swayed over by bribery. But I did miss him – we truly enjoyed each other’s company. I wanted to see if he really meant it when he promised he would never cheat on me again. So I took him to a party, filled with many pretty women and particularly strong wine. He got very drunk…And didn’t look at anyone but me for the whole evening. Didn’t even give a sideways glance to the waitress who was wearing very revealing clothes. I began to take his promise more seriously after that.” She smiles. “We took things steady, but it was clear he was finally leaving the life of a bachelor behind. We’ve been together ever since.”

Regis smiles. “I’m glad to hear that.” He’d never have guessed that Dandelion – the man who cheated on the Duchess of Toussaint – would have found someone he loved enough to stop his incessant romancing. But he’s glad. Priscilla seems to be a lovely woman, and a lovely singer. No wonder Dandelion has fallen for her.

At last, they reach the final house on the list. Out of all the houses on the street, it is the largest and cleanest one – although still small in comparison to some of the richer houses in Novigrad. Flowers grow in small pots on the outside of the house, and ivy vines climb up the brick stone of the walls. Regis can spy a garden by the back of the house, though the interior is shielded from his view by large fox gloves in pink and purple hues, crimson amaranth and bright sunflowers. On top of the roof, he spies three large ravens, huddled together in the cold. Good, his new raven friend can speak to them.

Priscilla knocks on the door. “I know this woman.” She tells Regis. “She comes by at the Chameleon quite regularly, likes to listen to our music. She’s from Nilfgaard. She came over roughly…four years ago, I think.”

The door opens, and a woman with brown hair stands in the frame. Regis recognises her as the woman he spoke to briefly outside the Chameleon, when Dandelion and Zoltan were being arrested. “Ah, Callonetta! It is lovely to see you!” Indeed, she has a strong Nilfgaardian accent. Her eyes are as black as peat, and her thick eye lashes long. She wears a periwinkle blue blouse with a deep indigo skirt that is stained with earth and mud by the bottom hem, and her chestnut hair is tied in a complicated bun. Around her neck is a garland of strongly fragrant primrose and lavender, and underneath he spies an azure crystal with smaller crystals all up the cord on either side, alternating between dark purples and deep blues. Her skin smells overwhelmingly of lavender, geranium and cypress lotion that must have been applied very generously.

Something about her unsettles Regis, but he isn’t entirely certain of what.

“Hello, Gwenllian. It’s nice to see you again.” Priscilla greets her warmly.

“And who is this?” She looks at Regis, her gaze scrutinising him up and down.

“My name is Regis. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He hides the caution from her voice. Her face is warm, but her black eyes are drilling into him.

“Please, do come in!” She steps aside. “Out of the cold!”

Priscilla, oblivious to Regis’s caution, follows Gwenllian inside. After a brief moment of hesitation, Regis follows in after her.

The inside of the woman’s house is small, her hallway plain and slightly dusty, but from there he can see that her main room is filled to the brim with countless tomes, squeezed into bookcases and piled on top of any available surface. A large table resides in one corner, covered in mortar and pestles, weights, knives and complicated tubes and burners. Herbs and chopped up flowers lay scattered on a cutting board, and one test tube holds a distilled pink liquid. His keen senses, far more advanced than that of a human, can smell a rose fragrance emanating from the tube.

“Please, do come to my garden. I have just made some rose petal cake, and I shall make tea. Would you like some, Callonetta?” Gwenllian smiles genuinely at Priscilla, but whenever her gaze flickers to Regis, it becomes harder.

“No, no, I couldn’t impose myself like that.” However, Gwenllian waves her hand dismissively.

“Oh, it is no problem, I insist.” She ushers them through the kitchen, which smells strongly of spices and herbs. Her kitchen shelves are crammed full of ingredients, pots and pans. On the stove, Regis sees a black pot that smells of cooking mutton. She removes the pot and quickly places a pan filled with water on top instead, allowing it to boil. “Please, go to my garden. There are seats out there, while I make you tea. What flavour would you like? I have fresh raspberries, I also have lavender?”

“Oh, raspberry would be lovely.”

Gwenllian glances at Regis. “And you?”

“No, I’m fine. Honestly.” He says hastily.

“As you wish.” Gwenllian smiles, though it doesn’t quite meet the eyes. “The garden is just through that door.”

When Regis steps out into the woman’s garden, he’s taken aback at the sheer colour. All around the edges of the garden are same towering sunflowers, fox gloves and amaranth as before, but there are also bushes of hydrangea with pearly pink and blue blossoms, marigolds with warm yellow and orange flowers, shrubs of lavender and spiky roses, blooming in every colour Regis knows – red, pink, yellow, white. Primroses and crocuses grow by the bases of their towering neighbours, showing their colourful blooms despite the shadows of the larger flowers. A small apple tree grows at the very back of the garden, heavily laden with green apples. The entire garden has an almost dizzying smell in the surprisingly warm air. In the centre of the garden is a small metal table and three chairs, each painted green with spiralling carvings on the back. Among the flower beds is the occasional small statue, most likely made from pottery. He spies a brown hare sitting amongst the primroses, and a red squirrel sits under the apple tree.

“Goodness, this is lovely, isn’t it?” Priscilla looks across the garden with a smile on her face, sitting down on one of the chairs. “Such a beautiful garden!”

That’s when Regis sees it.

Underneath the rose bush is a statue, not dissimilar to the pottery hare and squirrel. At first, Regis thought it was a black cat.

But cats don’t have such large teeth. Neither do they have rounded ears.

From behind them, he hears the door open. “I apologise for the wait.” Gwenllian carries a tray, on top of which is a white teapot with painted blue flowers and leaves, two cups and two small plates, a small jug of milk, a cake and a knife to cut it. She places it down on the table, and takes a seat next to Priscilla.

He can’t tell Priscilla, not with Gwenllian sitting right there. Something about this woman concerns Regis. He has no idea how powerful she is, but something tells her it would be very unwise to start a fight with her. He can’t directly confront her about being the murderer, not with Priscilla present as a target if this woman decides to get aggressive.

So instead, he sits down with them, trying hard not to look at the panther statue hidden beneath the roses.

“What a wonderful garden you have, Gwenllian.” Priscilla compliments her as the woman pours tea into first Priscilla’s, then her own, cups.

“Why, thank you.” Gwenllian beams. She gestures to the cake, which has a coating of fresh cream on the top with a slightly pink tinge. “Rose cake with strawberry cream. Would you like some?”

“Oh, that would be lovely.”

Gwenllian cuts a slice of cake for her, passing the plate over. She looks entirely enraptured by Priscilla’s every movement. She must be a fan, to say the least.

“Yes, you certainly have a very nice garden.” Regis comments, studying Gwenllian’s face. “We’re well into autumn, and the air is so cold today. How on earth do you manage to get your summer flowers to bloom?”

Gwenllian smiles an empty smile. “Ah, I have a way with flowers. Back at home, they called me the Garden Queen. I have many methods of making flowers grow, no matter the weather.”

No, it doesn’t matter what fertiliser and soil minerals are used, summer blossoms simply cannot grow in late autumn. Not only that, but the air itself feels warm. Who is she? A sorceress, perhaps? Someone with magical capabilities?

“So, Callonetta, what brings you to my humble house?” As she speaks, she gingerly touches her neck.

“Oh, you had that wound on your neck, didn’t you?” Regis interjects before Priscilla can speak. “I saw you in front of the Chameleon.” He hadn’t sensed this ominous atmosphere back then, though there were many people and he was far more focused on Dandelion and Zoltan’s arrest. “Forgive me for being rude, it just suddenly came to my mind.”

Gwenllian pauses, fixing him with an unreadable stare, before carefully moving the flower garland up. “Please, do not look, Callonetta, I would hate for you to be put off your cake.” The ailment certainly is unpleasant to look at. Her skin is red and blistered, with bubbles of yellow pus, across the side of her neck.

“Goodness. That looks painful.”

She lowers the garland again, hiding the unsightly wound. “Yes, it is, though my medicinal creams and a careful wash each night has helped with the pain and swelling.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Priscilla says genuinely. “I’m glad to hear the pain has lessened, though.”

“Oh, do not worry, I am very capable at creating soothing creams and balms. So, I ask again, what brings you here?”

“I assume you’ve heard of Parviz.” Regis tells her. “We’re looking into his death, and we’d like your help.”

“My help?” Her black eyes watch Regis carefully.

“Yes. You see, the owners of the Chameleon were arrested, but we believe – we know – them to be innocent. Framed. You are a regular at the Chameleon, so we thought you could perhaps help us in identifying any patrons who seemed suspicious.”

He can sense Priscilla’s surprise at his lie, but he’d rather not directly question her about Parviz’s death. Right now, she seems to be very fond of Priscilla, and even though he’s certain she must be some kind of magic user, even though something about her reeks of danger to Regis, he doesn’t think she’ll openly attack them, owning to that fondness towards the famed Callonetta. She certainly doesn’t seem to like Regis, but right now the atmosphere in the overpowering garden is a vaguely contented one, and he’d like to keep it that way. He has no idea how powerful this woman is, who keeps the air in her garden warm enough for flowers to bloom even in the cold winds that come off from the sea. If a fight broke out, he wouldn’t want Priscilla go get hurt.

“Ah. I see.” Gwenllian leans back in the chair, sipping from her cup. “I would he happy to help. Such a shame, what happened. I told the soldiers that the owners of such a fine establishment would not partake in a horrendous crime, but they would not believe me.”

He’s sure that her statement is a lie, but nonetheless he asks, “oh, you spoke to the Nilfgaardians?”

“I did. You see, I had gone to them about Parviz a few days before his death.” She touches her neck. “This wound I showed you – it was caused by one of his necklaces that I purchased.”

Information they already knew, but he feigns ignorance. “Oh dear, really?”

“Yes. I suppose the metal caused some sort of…allergic reaction on my skin. It was rather frightening, not what one expects from a necklace. Of course, I was very angry. I wrote to him, demanding a refund and money to cover the medical costs, but he refused to pay. So I went to the soldiers, asked them to help me. So, when Parviz died, they came to me, asking about where I was at the time of the murder.” She shrugs with a smile. “I told them I was with a friend of mine, one who runs the bath house, at the time of the murder, and they let it drop.”

“I see.” A supposed alibi he’ll have to check with his new raven friend. “I’m sorry to hear about that necklace.”

“Callonetta, how do you like my cake?” Gwenllian ignores him, focusing all her attention on Priscilla instead.

“It’s delightful. You’re truly an excellent baker.”

“Thank you. I am happy that you like it.” She seems genuinely enamoured by Priscilla’s very presence. Hm. Perhaps she is more than just a fan – or would like to be.

“So, did you notice anyone suspicious? On the days leading up to the murder?” Regis asks her.

“Hm…” She thinks about it. Or pretends to. “There was a man, he stayed there for a week…Callonetta, perhaps you knew him…He had brown hair, wore a red cloth around his forehead.

“Ah, you mean Tye.” Priscilla nods. “He was very odd, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was. A night before Parviz was murdered, I saw him furiously washing his hands. I was not sure what was on his hands, but the water stained dark. It could have been blood.”

They already know that Tye was involved with the murder, and that he framed Dandelion and Zoltan, but Regis nods graciously. “Thank you for such useful information.” Though, he wonders why she would tell him something like that, something that would implicate her fellow accomplice. Maybe she knows he’s fled Novigrad, so has no issue incriminating him.

“Oh, are you going so soon?” Gwenllian’s face falls.

“Well, I need to be excused, but please Priscilla, stay as long as you’d like.” He’d actually rather her stay here, so that Regis can go speak to the raven without Gwenllian realising.

“Yes, I’d be happy to stay for a bit longer.” She smiles, oblivious to his unease.

He leaves them in the garden, discussing their favourite poets and ballads, and quickly heads out of the house. For a moment, he considers rifling through her belongings for any hard proof of the murder, but decides against it. He doesn’t want to end up aggravating her.

Instead, he leaves the house and walks a short distance from it, turning the corner so as not to be seen. The flowers from the garden should stop her from seeing out, but he doesn’t want to risk her spotting him. He looks to the skies, waiting for the raven. He can’t see his avian friend, so he takes a few steps towards to change his view, when something brushes his foot.

Briefly, he glances down, assuming it to be a rock, but the vision sticks out in his mind as odd, so he looks again.

“…What on earth…” Regis crouches down, frowning. It’s a tiny pair of gardening shears. They’re barely even big enough to be a pair of nail scissors, but the design is definitely that of shears, not scissors. Carefully, he picks them up and examines them. Goodness, they even work! He pushes down on the handles, and the blades snip close. What on earth is this, then? He sees no reason to use such tiny shears – even if trimming a bush with small leaves and twigs, it would be far more efficient to use larger shears. He supposes that it could be some gardening tool he hasn’t heard of, but he isn’t a novice at gardening, having cultivated many a herb in his own time, and he’s certainly never used one this small.

Suddenly, he hears a shriek. Standing up, he expects to see his raven – but sees four. His raven is flying frantically towards him, pursued by three more, the same he saw on Gwenllian’s roof.

His raven swoops, cawing furiously and trying to evade his attackers. Two of the ravens suddenly branch off, and dive towards Regis. Croaking loudly, they attack him, flapping their wings in his face, trying to claw at him with their feet.

_Give back!_ They caw angrily. _Give back! Go away!_

He shields his face from their onslaught with one arm, gritting his teeth and trying to hit them away with his free hand. _What is it? Why do you attack me?_

_Give back! Go away!_ Is their only response.

Up ahead, he hears his raven cawing desperately. What on earth is happening? Why are these ravens acting with such hostility?

He hears another caw, but this belongs to a new raven. Loud and demanding. The ravens attacking him quickly veer off, screaming in rage. Lowering his arm, he sees a larger raven – the one with the scuffed beak who warned him about Tye. It pecks at the two ravens, which quickly fly away, and then turns its attention to the third raven in the sky. It soars towards the fight and croaks angrily at the attacking raven, digging its claws into its back and pecking its head. The attacking raven squawks and writhes, eventually struggling out of the larger raven’s grasp with a few feather lost in the process. It hastily flies away, realising it can’t fight the new arrival.

Together, Regis’s raven and the larger raven with the scuffed beak fly down towards him. They settle on the stone wall, the larger raven fussing over his raven. Ah, do they know each other?

_Nasty ravens!_ His raven ruffles his feathers indignantly. _Nasty ravens chase me! Not talk to me! Not let me see woman in house!_

_They wouldn’t let you see her? _Regis frowns. Why not? Were they trying to protect her in some way? He has heard of sorceresses being able to enchant animals to do their bidding. Maybe Gwenllian enchanted these ravens to prevent any other ravens – or people – snooping around.

The raven with the scuffed beak caws loudly. _Stay away from bad ravens. Bad ravens not vampire friend. Bad ravens attack child._

_Child?_

The raven taps the head of the smaller raven. _Child. I hatch him egg._

Oh, so she’s his mother. That’s why she came to his aid.

His raven ruffles his feathers again. _I grown up raven!_

_Child._ The mother raven preens his feathers affectionately, then flies over to Regis, landing on his shoulder. _What you want know?_

_This woman who lives here, she claims she was with a man from the bath house on the night of the murder. Is this true?_

The raven cocks her head. _I not see woman, ever. Bad ravens keep other ravens away. But I see bald water man. I see him leave bridge, then him leave city. He not with any woman I see._

Interesting. His suspicions about Gwenllian are becoming stronger and stronger. He doubts that she would have killed Parviz over the necklace. No, considering her ability to enchant ravens and grow flowers so closer to winter, he guesses she would have found out about the hidden cache of illegal and magic items, and killed Parviz to get them instead.

The raven with the scuffed beak flaps her wings, pointing her beak at the tiny garden shears in his hands. _Ravens want. _

_Why did they want this?_

_Bad ravens say woman possession. Want take it back to woman._

So this belongs to Gwenllian. He supposes that makes sense, since she’s such an avid gardener. Though, it’s size still puzzles him.

_I’ll keep this safe. It could be important._

The mother raven tugs his ear lobe – her way of showing affection towards him – and then flaps her wings, flying up towards the roofs of Novigrad.

_Careful, vampire friend._ She caws one last warning. _Vampire friend stay away from bad man._

He watches her go, still troubled by her warnings, and quickly puts the gardening shears into his bag, lest those ravens come back to attack him now the mother has gone.

His raven with the white feather flies and lands on his shoulder, chirping excitedly. _I go ask bad raven about woman, and they chase me away! I fly all over city! I peck at bad ravens! Vampire friend pleased?_

_That was very brave of you._ He strokes its chest with his finger.

The raven jumps up and down on his shoulder, delighted at this praise. _I brave! Thank you vampire!_

Then, it lifts off from his shoulder and waits on a roof top. He peers around the corner to see Priscilla waving goodbye to Gwenllian. The woman – enchanter of ravens and flowers, with a panther in her garden – smiles warmly at Priscilla. When she turns back into the house and closes the door, Regis cannot help but feel relieved. He shouldn’t - after all, he’s much stronger than any sorceress. Maybe it’s because of Vilgefortz. Maybe he knows better now than to be too confident.

“Oh, Regis.” Priscilla joins him around the corner. “What a lovely woman. I assume you spoke to the raven?”

“I did. Her alibi wasn’t right, apparently, but we weren’t able to clarify where she really was. The ravens outside her house were hostile. They attacked me.”

Priscilla looks shocked. “Really? I thought ravens liked you.”

“Not these ones. Walk with me, dear.”

He waits until they’ve walked a fair distance from the house. “I believe Gwenllian might be a magic user.”

Priscilla’s eyes widen in surprise. “What makes you think that?”

“The ravens, they were protecting her fiercely. She might’ve enchanted them to work for her. And those flowers – I’m something of a botanist myself. Flowers like that can’t grow in late autumn, it’s just too cold. Didn’t you notice how unnaturally warm her garden felt?”

Priscilla frowns. “Now that you mention it…”

“That’s not all. In the garden, I noticed a statue of a panther.”

“A panther? Why didn’t you say anything?” Priscilla demands.

“I meant no offence, my dear. I was simply worried. If she really is a magic user, I didn’t want a fight breaking out if I brought it up. And she seemed to like you. I thought we could use that to our advantage.”

“You really think she’s the murderer, then?”

“There was a panther in her house, like Yennefer’s vision suggested. She had been to Parviz’s shop before, and her purchase may have been her way of figuring out the best way to break in. Her alibi is incorrect, she wasn’t with the person she claimed to be – a raven told me that – and if she is a magic user, she most likely would have known the worth of the stolen item, the Zerrikanian transmutator. It seems that way to me.”

Priscilla shakes her head. “I can’t believe it. She seemed so nice…”

“Appearances can be deceiving, my dear. Now, we should report this to Yennefer and Ameer immediately, and discuss the best way to confront her.”

-

When they finally return to the Chameleon, Regis has become more excited. The reality of the situation is finally kicking in. They can interrogate Gwenllian, find out where Tye went, and finally catch up with the poisoner.

Opening the door, he spots Yennefer sitting at a table reading a tome, her brow furrowed in concentration, while Ameer sits cross legged in front of the fire place, examining something small on his hands.

“Yennefer, Ameer, I come with good news.” He calls to them, closing the door behind him to keep out the draft. “We think we’ve found out who the murderer is.

“Isn’t that great? Now we can help Dandelion and Zoltan, and you can find Tye!” Priscilla exclaims.

However, the excitement Regis was expecting to see on Yennefer and Ameer’s face is entirely absent. Confusion is their only expression as they glance at each other.

“What’s wrong?” Regis frowns. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

Ameer looks to him, still not moving from the fire place. “We thought we had found the murderer.” He says sheepishly.

“Oh. Oh dear.” This isn’t what Regis had expected. “Well, this is rather awkward.”

But Yennefer shakes her head. “No, no, tell us what you found out.”

“How about we pull up a chair? We’ve got a lot to cover.”

Somehow, he has a feeling things just got a lot more complicated.


	12. Pearl of the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, major book spoilers in this chapter (especially The Lady of the Lake).

_“Oxenfurt - a gem snuggling into the bosom of the Pontar to the east of Novigrad. A cradle erected upon Redanian soil, nurturing the greatest minds not only of that kingdom, but of all the North. To walk its hallowed Academy's halls is to embark on a journey through learning, from the finest points of Philosophy to the grandest strokes of Art, with stops made to admire Architecture and dissect Medicine along the way.” – Pearls of the North – Oxenfurt _

It takes a good half hour for both sides to regale their tales, and by the end, Regis is more unsure of the murderer’s identity than before.

“…What I really don’t understand,” Regis takes out the tiny shears from his bag, “is this. The ravens were so desperate to stop me taking it. They belonged to Gwenllian, but I have no clear idea why it was so important.”

Ameer passes Regis the grate. “Ours is very similar. Nothing unusual about the object itself, it is not made of any strange metal or have any magical properties. It is simply unnaturally small.”

“This can’t be a coincidence. The gate, the sword, and now the shears, they have to be related.” Yennefer pats the book in front of her. “I tried looking up any kind of spell that could fit. I’m certain it’s not compression, that has a different magical signature, but I’m struggling to find a specific one. All we know – all we can assume – is that the sizes of these objects were magically manipulated.”

Ameer frowns. “Do you think…perhaps this could be what the alleged transmutator is?”

Regis frowns, considering this. “I suppose it could be. And I suppose that Bedlam and Gwenllian could have worked in cahoots…”

“But my vision – and the footprints at the crime scene – only showed evidence of two people.” Yennefer counters. "One of which we know to be Tye."

“It is clear that both of these people are linked.” Ameer speaks up. “One, the unusually sized objects, and two, the fact that Ms Gwenllian claims to know Mr Bedlam. They are most likely both involved. Surely then, both would know of Tye? Ms Gwenllian even mentioned him.”

“I know, but I’m reluctant to confront her.” Regis admits. “Like I mentioned, she must be a magic user. I don’t know exactly how powerful she is, but I sense great danger around her.”

“Danger?” Yennefer frowns. “What do you mean?”

“That’s all I can describe it as. Danger.”

“How do you sense that?”

“Call it my vampiric instincts – much sharper than any human or member of the elder races.” He would not be able to explain it without taking another half hour, so he doesn’t bother. “And so, I would prefer to understand the exact powers and abilities of Gwenllian before we approach her with accusations of her involvement with the robbery.”

Yennefer rests her head in her hand. “I’ve heard plenty of sorceresses being able to enchant animals. And the warm air in her garden that allows the plants to grow, that could be a particularly high level spell, or some magically activated contraption. I think you’re right, but I’ll probably have to see her myself.”

“What about Bedlam? He’s certainly not magic. It may be easier to extract the magic from him.” Regis suggests.

“I’ve heard of the King of Beggars.” Priscilla plays with the crystal around her neck. “Everyone had heard of every gang leader, back before the Nilfgaardians came. And I’d heard he wasn’t as brutal or psychotic as the other gang leaders, but he was still very dangerous.”

“That is true.” Yennefer confirms her statement. “Not only is he dangerous, he’s smart. That’s how he gained so much power in the first place. He also knows how to make money, and he uses that money to garner unquestioning loyalty. He has multitudes of men who would back him up, and would attack us if we were too aggressive in our confrontation.” She frowns, thinking carefully. “…I suppose I should go and visit this Gwenllian for myself. If she is a sorceress, I should be able to deduce just how powerful she is.”

“And if Bedlam tries to attack us, I can hold off any of his men.” Regis says confidently.

“Letter for miss Yennefer?”

Regis turns to see a young boy standing in the door way of the Chameleon, dressed in dirty clothes. He wipes his snotty nose with one hand, and holds a letter with the other.

Yennefer stands up, a frown on her face. “That’s me. Who is it from?”

He walks over, now holding his hand out flat. “Can’t rightly say, miss Yennefer. Just told that I needed to give a letter to a black haired woman with purple eyes, hangin’ around with an old man and an elf in this ‘ere inn. And that I should be given 5 crowns for my bother.”

Yennefer sighs, but takes out the money from her purse, dropping the coins into his outstretched palm. He counts them and, satisfied, passes her the letter before hurrying away with his newly earned pocket money.

Yennefer examines the letter carefully before she opens it, most likely checking for any traces of harmful magic or a curse being cast on the paper. When she opens it, she reads it out loud.

“To Miss Yennefer, I have come across some information that would benefit you in your search for Parviz’s murderer. We have not met, but I know about you and the witcher. If you want to know more about who murdered Parviz, meet me at 8 in the evening tomorrow at the Alchemy in Oxenfurt.”

Regis frowns when she finishes. “…How peculiar. Who on earth could that be from?”

Yennefer looks puzzled. “Someone who I haven’t met, and yet knows about myself and Geralt…Our relationship, perhaps? I don’t know what else they could be referring to. How exactly do they know about me?”

“Well, you have been written about in various poems.” Priscilla almost sounds sheepish. “Or, it could be someone who knows Geralt. Found out from him.”

Ameer touches the back of his neck. “Do you think this is true? Or is someone trying to trick us?”

“Or lure us into a trap.” Yennefer puts the letter back into the envelope. “Since they’re claiming to know about Parviz, then we simply have to investigate. But we should be careful. The Alchemy – that’s an inn, and not exactly a good place for a team of bandits to carry out a stealthy assault without every Nilfgaardian soldier in the city realising. Even so,” she frowns, her brow furrowed in thought, “any form of attack is a possibility.”

“If you need to be there by tomorrow, you’d best not delay.” Priscilla tells them. “Oxenfurt is quite a distance. Unless you’re deciding to teleport?”

“Not directly into the city. I’ll teleport nearby, preferably to an empty field with no one around, and then walk the rest of the distance.” Yennefer decides. “Regis, I can only bring myself and one other person with me through a portal. Would you be able to get there by yourself?”

“Of course. I’ll travel by mist. Unfortunately, it won’t be quite as instantaneous as your method, but it should certainly be faster than travelling by foot, or even horse.” Whoever wrote this letter, for whatever reason, has certainly managed to intrigue him. Of course, the whole thing could be a dead end. Even an elaborate ambush could be looking too far into it. The writer could simply be a charlatan, pretending to offer psychically derived information about the crime to them. But at this point, they can’t afford to pass up on such a tantalising lead.

Despite the very rapid method of travelling by portal meaning they have plenty of time before tomorrow to arrive, Yennefer and Regis both want to set off as early as possible. If this letter really is setting up an ambush, then they might as well arrive early, give any potential attackers less time to prepare. But Priscilla convinces them to stay a little while longer.

“Have some food here first. Oxenfurt is quite expensive.” She tells them. “Dandelion loves to visit Oxenfurt, but I always dread the consequent food bill.”

Yennefer glances at her purse. “Hm. I suppose that’s a good idea.” Has she spent a lot of money on something as of late?

Though Regis is eager to leave, he does enjoy the cook’s meal. A pie stuffed with onions, turnips, parsnips, mushrooms and pork will certainly be enough to keep them full, and stop Yennefer’s purse from depleting. For a moment, Priscilla suddenly looks embarrassed.

“Oh, I never checked! Do you eat pork, Ameer? I’m ever so sorry.”

“It is no problem. I can eat pork.” He reassures her. “Different tribes have different rules. Some of us do not eat pork, some of us eat no meat at all. But myself and my family, we eat whatever we are given.” Living in the wild with his Fox Mother and siblings, he must be referring to that. The wilderness of Ofier must be even harsher than these realms – it would be foolish not to eat whatever food one can find. Though, does Ameer follow the rules of religions that most others in Ofier follow? Or elves? Or does he follow something different, something in line with his Fox Mother identity? There’s still so much Regis doesn’t know.

“Right, I see. We have a regular here who comes from Ofier, and he doesn’t eat pork.” Priscilla explains. “So I wasn’t sure.”

“I see.” Ameer says not much else on the matter, though he looks unsettled. Interesting. Regis would have thought that Ameer would react positively to news that brethren from his homeland were in Novigrad - especially when those from Ofier rarely travel to the northern kingdoms. Yet his reaction is entirely the opposite. Regis wonders why, but he knows better than to ask.

Thankfully, the dinner hasn’t delayed them by too much. Soon, they’re ready for their journey to the next large metropolis in the north.

“Thank you for letting us stay here, Priscilla.” Yennefer has packed up her bag, ready to transfer to the Alchemy inn.

“Please, it’s nothing. And there’ll always be a room for you, whenever you need to return.” Priscilla assures them.

“I hope that next time we see each other, we’ll have apprehended the murderer, Dandelion and Zoltan will be freed, and we shall be on our way to track down Tye. Even if we haven’t, I will surely look forwards to your company again.” Regis bows.

“It was very nice to meet you, Priscilla.” Ameer smiles mischievously. “I hope you write another song very soon. I would like to hear more about Yennefer’s adventures,” for this he earns a sharp nudge in the ribs, “and your singing is very lovely.”

“Thank you, Ameer.” She smiles. “No doubt, I have many songs still in the works. Good luck. I hope that this letter turns out to be a real lead.”

By the time they leave the Chameleon, at only 6 in the evening, the sun has set and the city is blanketed with darkness. Carrying their bags – Yennefer with the most, Ameer with almost nothing, and Regis himself with only a bag of herbs, some potions, and his hefty Skellige tome – they leave the empty streets of Novigrad’s city, and walk out towards the wilds of the Farcorners. Past old broken wagons, past shredded and rotten remains of Redanian flags, past pits of stakes and the remains of wooden pikes. No bodies remain from the vanquished Redanian forces, killed by the opposing Nilfgaardian armies years ago. He wonders if grieving family members were able to retrieve loved ones and give them a proper burial, or if they were dragged into a pile and burnt by the Nilfgaardians. However ruthless the latter option is, Regis supposes it’s better than the bodies being mutilated and eaten by necrophages.

Out of sight from the city, but not so far into the forest that they run into monsters, Yennefer opens up a portal. A stag rubbing its antlers against a tree trunk runs away, braying, and birds take flight from the branches at the noise. A rabbit dashes from the bushes, startled. The iridescent light illuminates the surrounding foliage dimly.

“We’ll meet by the Novigrad gate. If anything happens, if we haven’t reached the gate, then look for us near Gustfield farm. I’m teleporting a short distance from there.”

“Understood. I’ll travel as fast as I can myself.”

With that, Yennefer takes Ameer’s arm and together, they walk through the portal. After a moment, it swirls and closes, casting the forest in darkness once again.

Regis hears a caw from overhead. The raven with the white feather in its breast, his raven, swoops down from the canopy and lands on his shoulder.

_Scary. Witch lady friendly scary. Magic hole scary._ _Raven not understand magic hole._ So, the concepts of portals are beyond him, and he certainly wasn’t a fan.

_You don’t have to be afraid, it won’t hurt you._ Regis strokes the raven’s head. _What are you doing here?_

_I come with vampire friend. I help vampire friend!_

Regis feels…touched, almost. A small spark of joy in the midst of his loneliness. Yes, he’s touched. A new friend, as silly as it sounds. A new friend.

_But what about your mother? Won’t she miss you?_

_Raven mother know I strong. Raven mother know I brave, so raven mother know I good! Raven mother have many many child, I leave home!_ He’s leaving the nest in a very literal sense.

_Thank you, friend. It makes me happy that you’re with me. _

The raven puffs his feathers in pride. _I happy! Where go?_

_I’m travelling to Oxenfurt. I’ll turn to mist to get there. Will you be able to fly such a long distance with me?_

_Yes! I fly very good! I fly to Oxenfurt and I help! I look for man with scar like raven mother say and I help what you ask!_

However, it soon becomes clear that the raven isn’t quite as good at flying as first made out. Travelling by mist isn’t as fast or effective as actual flying, but the full moon is a good month away – and yet, Regis still stays ahead of his raven friend, who he should really think of a name for. Every now and then, Regis pauses on his journey, to see that the raven is a good few minutes behind him. He really should just fly straight ahead to meet up with Yennefer, but concern for the young raven makes him stop. At first, the raven flies quickly and confidently, croaking and claiming how easy the journey is. But the more time that goes on, the more tired he seems to become, and the longer it takes for him to catch up.

As Regis flies, he is able to see how drastically the landscape has changed. Regis may not have been in this area for some time, but he certainly doesn’t remember all the houses and hamlets having been established, peppering the fields and paths to Oxenfurt like daisies in a field. He can only assume that this area bore only battlefields and piles of bodies during the third Nilfgaardian war, but now that vague stability has finally settled on the land, new residencies have been built, taking advantage of the relative peace.

By the time he finally reaches a small forest outside Oxenfurt, a safe place to revert back from mist to a human form, the raven practically drops to the ground, exhausted from the journey. Shaking his head, Regis scoops up the bird and carries him the remaining distance.

_I thank vampire friend_. The raven caws tiredly. Regis just smiles.

When he reaches the Novigrad gate of Oxenfurt, pearl of the north, he can see Yennefer and Ameer sitting by the bridge. Grown tired of standing and waiting, they’re sitting down. Ameer is shivering, huddled close to Yennefer for warmth.

Spotting him from a distance, Yennefer stands up, clearly irritated. Ameer stands up too, and huddles close to her again.

“You’re finally here.” She remarks dryly when he reaches her.

“I apologise. If I had realised you were waiting for me in the cold, I would have travelled faster.”

Yennefer crosses her arms, not pacified. “If I’d realised it would take that long, I would’ve just teleported back to you again, and brought you through the portal.”

“But that would’ve drained your energy. And if we are attacked in Oxenfurt, it would cause us problems.” Regis counters calmly. “And you really didn’t have to wait for me.”

“Of course we were going to wait for you.” She snaps. Then she quickly adds, “What if we really were attacked? I’d much rather have an immortal vampire backing us up and helping us protect Geralt’s medallion.”

“…I see. Thank you for waiting, and I apologise for taking so long.”

Yennefer sighs. “…Well, you’re here now. We should find somewhere to stay, out of the cold.”

“Yes.” Ameer speaks up quickly, still shivering. “Yes, we should do that.”

Together, they walk over the bridge and up to the Novigrad gate. A Nilfgaardian soldier asks for papers, but Ameer’s illusions allow them to walk through without any difficulties.

The streets of Oxenfurt are even more quiet than Novigrad at this late hour, and somehow more heavily guarded. Soldiers stand at every corner, the yellow suns on their armour dull in the darkness. Again, this is a city Regis has not visited in quite some time, but what he remembers is a city filled with students, poets, professors, each quaint street bustling with activity and noise.

But tonight, the streets are messy. Red flags are everywhere – trodden into the dirt, half torn down from windows and doors, some neatly cut and shaped, others simply scraps of tattered red cloth. Occasionally, he spies the remains of torches, all which have long since fizzled out, and once, a pitch fork snapped in two.

“Something has happened here.” Ameer addresses the obvious question as they walk in the streets. “I know there have been many wars, but what has happened in this place?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been keeping up to date on the functioning of the northern kingdoms.” Yennefer admits, but her gaze isn’t on the flags. She’s looking around herself, constantly alert. Like Regis, she fears an ambush from any corner. Unless it was the likes of Gwenllian and her infuriating, dangerous aura, Regis would have little problem fending off an attacker. Unfortunately, it would be impossible to hide his vampiric state from the Nilfgaardian soldiers. And therefore, he feels uneasy walking down the streets.

As if reading his mind, Ameer speaks up. “If we are attacked and must fight, I can cast an illusion to hide us from the soldiers.”

“There are many of them, Ameer. Are you sure you’d be able to manage?”

“Hmm…Yes. I hope. It would certainly be within my normal range of abilities. My mother would be able to trick even more people than this, a large crowd, and while I am not as powerful, this number I should manage. I just hope I am not too…inexperienced? No, not inexperienced.” He frowns. “I am not sure how you describe it, the idiom, in Common…It has been a year, so my abilities are not as good as they were before, they may require time?”

“Ah, you’re out of practice.” Regis sums up for him. “I understand.”

“Out of practice.” Ameer repeats.

Thankfully, they reach the Alchemy inn entirely unscathed. Discreetly, Regis hides the raven in his bag, assuming that the owners of the establishment would not appreciate him bringing in a wild animal.

“I’m looking for two rooms.” Yennefer walks up to the front desk, ignoring the rowdy noises from the dining area. She looks around the inn with a scrutinising and disdainful gaze.

The owner shakes his head. “Only one room, with only one bed, but it’s a big one.”

“We’ll take it.” When the owner heads to a back room to grab a key, she whispers to Ameer, “we won’t be staying long in this grovel, that’s for certain.” From the dining area, someone wolf whistles at Yennefer, which she pointedly ignores and shakes her head at Regis and Ameer, clearly telling them to do as she has done.

The owner gives them the keys, Yennefer hands over some crowns, and the three of them head to their room. It has a double bed, a small closet, and large glass windows. In comparison to the Chameleon, the room seems quite drab and unclean, but it’s certainly better than other places Regis has slept in before.

“Finally.” Only ceasing his shivering now, Ameer sits down on the single bed. “This room is not very warm, but I will take any warmth instead of the cold outside.”

Yennefer puts down her heavy bag. “Yes, it will do. After all this effort, I’ll have some very choice and unpleasant words to say to the sender of that letter if this turns out to be a farce.”

Regis is about to agree with her when he freezes. Ameer is carefully taking off something Regis had not paid much attention to before. But now, he cannot draw his eyes away.

It’s Milva’s bow.

There’s no mistaking it. Her expensive, dearly beloved, excruciatingly cared for bow. Her bow crafted from mahogany wood and whale tendon, all the way from the Far North. The bow that, no matter how impressively well she wielded it, no matter how easily she dispatched enemies with this deadly weapon, was unable to save her in Vilgefortz’s castle.

Ameer catches him staring at it. “It is a beautiful bow, is it not? Yennefer kindly bought it for me.”

It’s Yennefer who catches on, realising why his gaze is so grieved at the wood and drawstring in front of him. “…You knew Milva, didn’t you?”

Regis closes his eyes. “…I did. We were both part of Geralt’s Hanse, on his quest to find Ciri. We...We were friends. Where on earth did you find it?”

“We bought it from a blacksmith’s. He claimed that it entered circulation shortly after Parviz’s death, so it’s likely he somehow found it…I knew that Geralt was fond of Milva. A bow will come in useful, Ameer is an expert archer, but I didn’t particularly want her bow ending up in the hands of some brutish soldier.” She hesitates, looking at him. “…I’m sorry to hear about what happened to them all.”

For a moment, he finally understands Yennefer’s pride. He had found her stubbornness…amusing, to describe it in one way. Her strong and inherent dislike towards others prying into her business, her cold detached attitude, he had found vaguely understandable, and yet claimed to himself he was not the same.

But he is. How quickly Yennefer picks up on his inner turmoil of sadness, how directly she talks about it…He understands her attitude now, for it is not a pleasant feeling to discuss – especially about feelings towards the deceased.

Ameer stands up and brings it over to him, holding it out carefully. He says nothing. A silent invitation.

Regis picks up the bow, running his hand over the wood. Oh, Milva. Poor Milva.

As a vampire, he shouldn’t be so sad. Humans die. It’s an inevitable truth. But Geralt’s Hanse were his friends. The first true friends he’d had in a while.

And he lost them _all. _

Milva, Cahir, Angoulême…each one murdered in Stygga castle, where Regis himself was obliterated and assumed dead. He didn’t get to say goodbye to any of them. When he awoke, he didn’t even realise that all of them were dead. He had found Milva’s body among the other dead archers, bled out from a mortal wound of another archer’s arrow. But Cahir and Angoulême…only when he was well enough from his regeneration to finally walk and travel by himself, when he sent out ravens and searched the area himself for his friends, did he realise that Cahir was slain by the evil man Leo Bonhart. Only then did he learn Angoulême died shortly thereafter, bleeding out from a fatal wound. Geralt had supposedly been killed in a pogrom, murdered by a pitchfork, and his body taken away. Out of his friends, only Dandelion and Zoltan survived, but Regis didn’t go to find them. The death of his friends shook him to his core, reminded of human’s flimsy mortality, and he became afraid. Afraid of the grief he would feel when they, too, died.

That was foolish. Terribly foolish.

Sighing deeply, he hands the bow back to Ameer. “…I’m glad, that it’s ended up in your capable hands. Please, take good care of it.”

Ameer nods solemnly. “I would be honoured to look after it.”

Turning away, not wanting them to see how much it has affected him, Regis opens up his bag and carefully takes out the dishevelled raven. He sees that he’s been snacking on some of his herbs, and looks far more alert than he did after the long fly. Ruffling his feathers, the raven flies to the window, pecking on the glass.

“A raven? Did you have that in your bag?” Yennefer frowns, confused.

“I did. He’s decided he wants to help us – he is rather young and excitable, but very eager to assist us in our investigation. He helped me verify the alibis of our suspects.” He walks over to the raven.

_I go find food. But I also look brown man scar!_ It croaks.

_Thank you. And if you see anyone acting strangely, as if they might be planning an attack, please let me know._

_Yes vampire friend!_ The raven ruffles his feathers again, and Regis opens the window. Spreading his wings, he flies off into the darkening and starry sky.

“…I think it would be wise if we take turns guarding the door, lest anyone really does try to attack us.” Regis says when the raven leaves. “I’ll go first.”

And so, as Yennefer and Ameer sleep in the bed, with only his thoughts for company, Regis watches the night sky as it changes from an unfathomable black to a dull, pale blue. He watches the dawn colours finally spill into the sky as the sun rises, spreading warm colours and swallowing up the stars. Occasionally, the raven flies back, to report no sign of Tye and nothing unusual. Other than that, the night is silent. He really should wake up Yennefer or Ameer, who insisted they share the guard duty, but he finds himself reluctant to do so.

Because, as soon as they fall asleep, Regis quietly takes the bow and holds it in his hands. The last trace of his deceased friends.

Every now and then, he looks over at Ameer. The aguara is asleep and, for once, not plagued by nightmares. And around his neck, the wolf head stares at Regis.

“…Did you bury them?” Regis asks softly. He knows there will be no response, but he asks all the same. “Did you find their bodies, after it all happened? Did you see them pass? Or did you only find them after the bloodshed?”

He runs his hand over the wood of the bow again. “…It must have been hard. Finding them. I…When Vilgefortz melted me, I wasn’t thinking of much. Pain, that was all that consumed me. But I do remember having a fleeting thought. Hope. That I’d bought you enough time. That you, Yennefer and Ciri would reunite, and find Cahir and Angoulême. Milva was gone. And I was scared, because I knew this pain, this fire…it would be the end of me. I couldn’t regenerate from it, not by myself. I knew that instinctively. But still, I had hope that maybe everyone else would survive. I suppose that was foolish of me.”

He looks at the medallion again. “I know you must blame yourself for what happened. For all of them. I told you not to blame yourself for my death, but I suppose that doesn’t matter much when I, in fact, didn’t die. But you can’t hear those words from Milva. Or Cahir, or Angoulême. But…Their deaths are only to be blamed on their killers. Not you.”

The dawn light gets stronger, and Regis can hear birds singing from the forests. Carefully, he puts the bow back by Ameer’s bed.

“…We miss you, Geralt. A lot. I wish that you could hear us, speak with us.” It seems that, until they find Tye and cure Geralt, this is the closest Regis is going to get to talking with his old friend.

——

“I had a strange dream.”

Yennefer had just been asking why Regis didn’t wake her up to let her take over.

“You really should have woken me up.” She had crossed her arms. “You look tired now.”

“Being a vampire, I do not require sleep in the same way that humans do.” Regis deflected. “I decided it would be better to allow you to sleep through the night undisturbed.”

“Vampires do need to sleep, though. Maybe not as much as humans, but you do need to sleep.”

“Well, one night shan’t do much damage, I would hope.”

That’s when Ameer says it. He’s been sitting on the bed, staring down at the wolf medallion, ignoring their conversation.

“You had a strange dream? What do you mean by that?” Yennefer asks.

“I…” He stands up, allowing the head of the medallion to rest in the palm of his hand. “I had a dream about Geralt.”

Instantly, their petty and passive aggressive argument is completely forgotten. Yennefer and Regis crowd around him, staring down at the medallion.

“A dream? What kind of dream?” Yennefer asks.

“Did he speak to you?” A thousand questions are on Regis’s tongue, and it requires a great deal of patience to not unload them on Ameer.

Ameer tilts his head. “I…I was in a castle. I did not recognise it, but…” now, he touches his chest. “It felt like…home.“

“A castle?” Yennefer frowns. “Describe it, if you can.”

“Mm…It was very big. Surrounded by beautiful forests and mountains. But, it did not seem very well kept. There was lots of broken stone, and the plants were growing everywhere.”

“Kaer Morhen.” Yennefer tells Regis. “It has to be.”

“I was standing on a balcony, and…Geralt was there.”

Regis feels his heart race, excitement and another, more treacherous feeling, quivering inside of him. “You saw him? What happened?”

“…He was trying to speak to me.” Ameer frowns, fingers tracing the ridges of the wolf head. “But, I could not hear what he was saying. As if…we were underwater. I could hear vague noises, but nothing else. And yet, when I woke up, I had strong feelings in my chest – feelings that were not my own.” He frowns. “I felt…happy. But also, scared. A strong fear, one that did not belong to me, but I was not sure what the fear was about. And Yennefer,” he looks at her, “I had a strong feeling to kiss you. No, not a feeling…as if there was a tiny voice at the back of my head, and that voice wanted to kiss you.” Then he turns to Regis. “And that same voice wanted to embrace you, to talk to you.”

“Geralt. That was Geralt, wasn’t it?” Yennefer turns to Regis, almost a hint of desperation in her voice. “You know more about this spell than I do. Can the user feel the soul of the spell’s recipient?”

“I’m not sure.” Regis answers, just as desperate as she is. “But it sounds very plausible, based on this information.”

“Ah!” Ameer cries out, startled and staring down at the medallion. “His eyes!”

When Regis peers at the metal, he sees it – the eyes are glowing a gentle, soft yellow.

“They’ve never done that before.” Yennefer states when she sees them. “Not once. Red, maybe, but not yellow.”

“Is it broken?” The thought sends terrible worry throughout Regis. “Is it damaged?”

Ameer studies the medallion. “No, no damage…They were red when I spoke to the mage in Skellige. Now they are yellow. Is he trying to communicate with us? Perhaps, it is an emotion?”

All three of them look at each other, the revelation of this theory stunning them for a moment.

Then Regis grabs Ameer by the shoulders, looking closely at the wolf’s face. “Geralt, if you can hear me, glow twice.” He says slowly and loudly. “Stop glowing, then glow, then off and on again. If you can hear me, do that, please.”

However, the glowing doesn’t change, doesn’t heed Regis’s instructions. The small cluster of hope that had built up inside of him is quickly squashed. Perhaps this is simply a fluke, some abnormal incident.

“Geralt. Can you see me?”

Regis turns to see Yennefer without her clothes on. Instead, she wears lingerie, a black laced bra with underpants. The black necklace and pendant is still around her neck, and she regards the medallion expectantly.

The yellow light of its eyes glows even brighter.

Her face brightens when she sees it. “A response. It has to be.”

Regis lets out a shaky, relieved laugh. “I believe you’re right. He can see us.”

Ameer looks less pleased. Frowning, he puts his hand over the medallion. “How rude – do not look! I do not want your nasty thoughts in my head!”

But neither Yennefer nor Regis can stop smiling. Yennefer places her hand on the wolf medallion gently, and Regis does the same.

"He’s definitely in there." Yennefer smiles. "The spell is definitely working. And he can see us." The relief and sheer joy is unlike anything Regis has felt in a long, long time.

“So, he can see us, but not hear us?” Regis asks.

“We have to assume so. And I suppose you’ve never seen anything like this, Ameer?”

“No, I have not. Though, the only time I used the spell, it was for two days, and the patient – a human – did not remember anything.” Ameer frowns thoughtfully. “This has been longer than two days. And Geralt is a witcher. Perhaps the mutations mean the spell works differently.”

Soon, the eyes begin to fade slightly, going back to their dull state.

“I think he is resting.” Ameer says before either of them can panic. “I can still feel him here.”

Yennefer sighs in relief. “That’s good. Very good.” All of a sudden, she looks slightly abashed at her emotional display. “I shall get changed again. Now, if we want food, I believe we should look beyond this inn – though are choices will rely entirely on price. I’m quite low on money.”

“I shall go hunting.” Ameer announces. “To pay back the cost of the bow. I can hunt us food, or perhaps sell pelts.”

“I’ll go with you.” Regis says quickly. “I can gather herbs and edible plants.” He needs to stock up on herbs again to keep up his disguise, since the raven decided to snack on them. And, in truth, he too feels rather embarrassed. Besides, this will give Yennefer some undoubtedly wanted seclusion to process her new feelings towards the situation.

Indeed, Yennefer doesn’t argue. “Good idea. Meet me back here when you finish. I have some research I’d like to do, anyway.”

Outside the inn, the streets are anything but empty. Civilians are gathered on the roads by the inn, whispering and muttering to each other. Beyond the streets, towards the main market area, Regis can hear shouting and chanting. And the sound of barking – he’ll take care to avoid any dogs, then, until he's replenished his herbal stocks.

“It’s going on again, mum.” A woman with a baby whispers to an older woman. “What do you think’ll happen?”

“With the Black Ones involvin’ emselves, who knows?” The older woman shakes her head.

“Excuse me.” Regis approaches them. “We only arrived here last night. If it’s not too much trouble, could you explain to us what exactly is going on?”

“You been at Oxenfurt before?” The old woman looks him up and down. She glances at Ameer too, who stands behind with his cloak hood up. “And you – you’re not from around here, are you? Been to this neck of the woods before?”

“It has been a rather long time since I was last in Oxenfurt.” Regis admits. “And my companion here has never been before.”

“Are you familiar with the Oxenfurt Academy?” The daughter asks him.

“Why, of course. A good friend of mine is an alumni of that most prestigious school.”

“Well, with the Black Ones arriving, ruling over Redania, they’ve decided to make some changes the staff and students of Oxenfurt Acaedmy aren’t pleased with.” She explains. “Changes to the curriculum, to the way of teaching. Specifically about Nilfgaard. People are calling it propaganda. A group of students started protesting in the market square, about a week ago. Started small, about fifteen people involved. The Black Ones tolerated it. But every day, it grew. More students getting involved, even teachers and professors.”

“No deaths.” The old woman says. “No violence from the Black Ones – so far. The ones in charge seem reasonable enough, but they’ve also refused to reconsider.”

“Now, the crowds are so big, the market is closed for a few hours every day. By midday, I’d say that the Black Ones will have dispersed them.” The woman shakes her head. “Just means we can’t get to our shops, our jobs, until it dies down.”

“Hm. If I’m to be perfectly candid, I’m surprised that no one has been fatally wounded.” Regis remarks.

“Oh, it’ll happen eventually.” The old woman points to her temple. “I remember it vividly, I do. 1242. The Oxenfurt uprising. Bunch of students kiddin' themselves that they’re doing something noble, something brave. Start bringing on local people like you an’ me. But then they start gettin' violent, start killin' anyone who doesn’t agree with them.” She shakes her head. “‘‘Twas awful, it was. But they were put down just as violently by the authorities. And I’m tellin' you, unless the Black Ones give in, or the students give up, it’s going to be the same. Either the students’ll start killin', or the Black Ones’ll get tired and kill ‘em.”

“Come on, mum, surely it won’t be that bad.” The daughter says hopefully.

“Hm. I wouldn’t be so sure. Let’s just hope either side has the sense to give in before things get too rough.”

“We’ll avoid the market area, then. Thank you for your warning.”

Weaving through crowds of disgruntled workers waiting for the market to open, past groups of citizens debating the validity of both side’s arguments, Regis and Ameer finally reach the Novigrad gate. There are fewer soldiers here than before, no doubt having been called for reinforcements in the market square.

Eventually, when they reach the forests outside of Oxenfurt, the shouts have faded considerably. Still audible, but not as loud as before.

“I suppose this is the most peace and quiet we’ll get.” Regis remarks as they begin their walk into the forest. Nothing can ruin his good mood now, though. He feels happy, the first time since he arrived in Skellige, as he walks. The grass has a thin layer of frost which crunches underfoot, and sunlight filters through the dying and branches of the canopy, providing an illusion of warmth. And yet the cold doesn’t bother him. The sounds of birds and animals echo through the trees, and Regis decides he likes the noise of it.

Geralt is conscious in there. He feels much closer to them than he was before.

Ameer seems more pensive. He has his bow in his hands, eyes travelling across the canopy and undergrowth carefully.

“…1242. Why did they fight?” He asks, notching an arrow into the bow.

“If I recall correctly, it was something to do with democracy. Such events are so numerous in the 400 years I’ve been alive, it’s rather hard to keep track at times.”

Ameer stops suddenly, squinting at the trees. He raises his bow, but before he can take aim a wood pigeon takes flight and retreats further into the canopy.

He mutters something in Ofieri, most likely a swear word. “I apologise. I am not used to hunting in this biome. The animals, they are very different to those in Ofier. And so, I must learn how to hunt these new animals.”

“That’s not a problem, Ameer. Besides, I have a feeling that my low supply of herbs might be alerting the animals to my presence. I shall try and collect some promptly, so as not to ruin your hunt.”

Together, they travel deeper into the forest. As the trees become thicker, the little warmth from the light wanes. Despite the cold of autumn, plants abound – one simply has to know where to look, and rely on leaves rather than flowers for identification. Regis comes across wild garlic, rosemary, wood sorrel, sweet chestnut, hawthorn, pink purslane and chickweed. These should help mask his scent. He takes time to peruse the undergrowth for medicinal varieties, too. Henbane, hemlock and bryony are entirely poisonous to eat, but are useful anaesthetics. Among some of the more tumultuous soil, he finds poppies – a powerful analgesic and relaxer. Perhaps they’ll come in useful.

At first, Ameer does not bother to even raise his bow. He simply walks through the forest, observing the animals as they run from bushes, fly from trees and perch in branches. His head tilts as he watches them, and as he walks, he hums that little tune again, absent minded. Eventually, he leans down and picks up a branch. Lowering his hood, perhaps to hear better, he arches his arm back and hurls it towards the branches of a tree. When the birds roosting there take flight, he draws the bow and lets an arrow loose, faster than Regis’ vision can keep up with. One of the birds drops down, the arrow in its breast. Ameer walks over to it and quickly breaks its neck, putting the animal out of its misery.

“…You have lived longer than I have, Regis.” He takes out the arrow and fastens the dead bird to his belt. “So may I ask some questions?”

“About what?”

“Humans.”

“Humans? I was certain you had plenty of expertise on them.” Regis carefully puts the minty leaves he’s picked into his bag. “You worked alongside them, after all.”

“That is true.” Ameer sits down on a fallen tree trunk, which is half covered in bushes and opportunistic plants. He picks a few wild raspberries from the bushes, and sniffs them – checking for poison. Even in a new biome, his highly superior sense of smell should allow him to identify poisonous fruits. Of course, Regis would stop him if he tried to eat a poisonous species.

“I lived among humans for…hm. Forty years? Unlike you, I did not have to hide or change places to avoid discovery as often, as elves are long lived anyway, so no one noticed my lack of ageing. And the elder races, especially elves, I know them very well.”

“So…why do you ask?”

Ameer frowns, breaking off a twig from the bush distractedly. “…I know humans well. And yet, my mother said I was naïve. That we could never understand humans, not really.” His gaze is suddenly averted, alert and focused into the bushes in front of him. His head swivels from side to side again, in a similar manner to a fox before it pounces. Carefully, he notches in another arrow, aims the bow – and sends it flying into the bushes, where it lands in an unfortunate rabbit.

He jumps off the log and retrieves it, taking back the arrow head and broken shaft, then hanging the rabbit on his belt.

“…We vulpesses, we live by simple rules. We have our children. We look after them, no matter what. They never go hungry with us. If someone takes them, we do anything to get them back. We kill, if we have to – sometimes, if we want to. Those who trespass onto our land are chased away with illusions. We try not to fight among ourselves, though we occasionally have spats about territory. But, we live off the land. We are not governed by laws, by kings or queens. We do not seek to kill humans, or those belonging to the elder race. If they incur our wrath, then so be it, but we have no…no agenda? Yes, no agenda, that is the word, no agenda to kill humans, manipulate them – nor to help them, meddle in their affairs. We have our children, our families, and we live our lives with our secrets.”

“And yet, you lived beside humans.” Regis collects some of the berries himself, tying them in a cloth. “Healed them, in fact.”

“I did. Because I am not a true vulpess.” He sits back on the log. “Hm…a part of me was not entirely bound to our customs, our secrecy. I was curious. And, I found it enjoyable to heal. I liked humans. They could be cruel, and they are so weak and fragile, but also hard working and tenacious, and sometimes even kind. When you find a poor, injured animal out in the wild, and it looks so tiny and helpless, and you want to look after it? That is what I feel towards humans.”

“They are rather frail, aren’t they?” Regis muses.

“Yes. But my mother, she did not approve. She warned me of their fickle natures, their innate violence. She told me, it is why the vulpesses strike back with such rage and deadly power when we are wronged, when our children are stolen. It is a warning. So they fear us, so they know not to persecute us lest they face our wrath. She said I did not understand humans.” He sighs. “I thought I could, being more elf than any of my sisters. I thought I may be able to understand them – truly live alongside them, even. And it was a charmed life, I must admit, living in the cities. Hearing so many different tales from different people, living in security instead of facing the harsh wilderness.” His face hardens. “But she was right. I did not understand humans – and I still do not. Tell me, Regis. Why is it that humans can be so quick to kill?”

Regis sits next to him on the log. “Well, everything can be quick to kill, depending on the reason.”

Ameer shakes his head. “If we kill, it is only because our children have been stolen, or to keep humans from killing us. When a fox kills, it is to survive, to feed. But humans kill because they do not like one breed of human, or because they are greedy and want something very badly.” He frowns. “I thought that humans would be more focused on life and mortality. For us, vulpesses and vampires, it makes little difference. We live too long, and it is something we would struggle to ever comprehend. So why is it that humans, who must comprehend it, who live in the knowledge of its…”

“Inevitability?”

“Yes. Why do humans like to take life, to kill, even though they should value it more than anyone else? The woman from the city, she said that those people killed all those who did not agree of them. What if I do not agree with a violent uprising? What if I think peace talks are more effective? It does not matter who is right or wrong, but because I do not agree, they kill me?”

“Hm.” Regis picks celandine flowers growing on the log. “What you ask, Ameer, is a question even humans themselves don’t know. Are humans inherently evil? I don’t think so. But they’re not inherently good, either. Most seem to have some basic drive to do well by others, to help instead of kill. And yet, so many seem so willing to do the most abhorrent, disgusting acts. In and out of war, for the deliberate detriment of others, for their own gain…I think, it would be far easier if we could classify them as they classify us.”

Ameer tilts his head. “…What do you mean?”

“Monsters. This human did this, so he is a monster. But they’re not monsters. That would be letting them off too lightly. Even the simplest peasant, one who works hard, looks after his family, treats his farm animals well, can involve himself in brutal pogroms without a hint of guilt on his conscience. They know the choices, they know the consequences, and they do have the ability to empathise – but some choose not to, or do not care. I’m like you, in a way. I walk among humans far more than any other vampire does. And I understand their customs, their culture, their morals infinitely more than anyone else in my race. But I’m afraid that neither of us will truly ever understand. Admittedly, even vampires – and I’m sure vulpesses – can show great acts of cruelty. However, these acts come from an entirely different realm of rationale.” Dettlaff…he bore no particular resentment towards the people of Beauclair. He did not understand the concept of being tricked, lied to, manipulated, so he simply reacted in a way he thought would both get what he wanted, and strike back at Syanna to hurt her, as she hurt him. His lack of understanding, his inability to truly empathise with humans, be aware of how they act, caused both his most inexcusable crime, and his ultimate downfall.

“Our species are just…built differently, I suppose. We were raised in entirely different cultures, and even the greatest empathy, the most intricate of knowledge, will never quite be enough to entirely and intimately understand humans.”

Ameer considers this quietly. “…I think my mother was right. I am foolish.”

“I don’t think it’s foolish to want to understand others, to even the smallest degree.”

Ameer nods, still silently thoughtful. Being captured and enslaved by humans would most certainly shift one’s perspective, raise doubts at one’s pre-existing knowledge and assumptions.

“…Thank you, for answering my questions. I am sure I must be boring you with all this philosophical talk.” Ameer stands up. So he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, getting too close to sensitive subjects.

“Not at all. As a matter of fact, I adore philosophical talk. But shall we continue?”

“Yes.”

Further into the forest, Ameer manages to down two more birds. Regis himself has a good harvest with herbs; the autumn fruit is plentiful, and not yet killed off by frost or snow. Among his retrieval he finds a multitude of horse mushrooms, large and fleshy. They’ll go well in a stew. They see no one as they walk, but swiftly take a different path when Ameer senses wolves up ahead. He offers to bewitch them, but Regis says it would simply be easier to avoid them.

_Vampire friend! _Regis looks up to see his raven swooping down towards him. Almost instinctively, he hold out his arm and the raven perches on it. In his beak are a collection of small stalks and leaves.

_Hello, my friend._

_I give plant!_ Regis holds out his other hand, palm outstretched, and the raven drops the leaves and stalks onto him.

“Goodness.” Regis examines it carefully. “How on earth did he find this?”

“What is it?” Ameer peers at the leaves curiously.

“It’s ebony spleenwort. Very rare, and quite a pain to reach – normally, one has to traverse caverns and subterranean tunnels to find this species.”

The raven puffs his chest up. _I find plant on ground by elf cave! Vampire friend like?_

_Yes, I do. Thank you very much._ Regis looks at Ameer, who has his back to him. “He’s done a lot of flying recently. You wouldn’t consider giving him some food –”

Ameer turns back around, the tip of an arrow head in one hand, something bloody in the other. Cawing, the raven flies over to him and lands on his arm, pecking at the bloody lump. Then, he flies away. _Thank you fox friend!_

“What was that?” Regis asks.

“Rabbit eyes.” Ameer kneels and wipes his hand in some moss. “The ravens here are different to the ravens in Ofier, but it seems they still like to eat such things…” He trails off, staring up at the trees again. His head keeps on tilting again in that fox-like manner. 

With no warning, he bares his teeth and hisses. His vulpess canines are showing. He picks up another stick and hurls it at the trees. From the branches, Regis spots an owl sleepily take flight. Ameer watches it go scornfully.

“What was that about?” Regis asks.

“I do not like owls. They are very annoying. They hunt foxes in Ofier. Of course, they cannot hurt _us_, but by principle we do not like each other.” He explains.

“I see.” Regis can’t help but smile. Ameer narrows his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just…very fox-like. That, and all the head tilting you do.”

Ameer frowns, flustered. “Well, you vampires are bats, yes? Do you not display some similar behaviours? Even in human form?”

When Regis shakes his head, a mischievous smile creeps onto Ameer’s face. “Really? Because I heard that vampires like to eat insects, just like bats do.”

“Well, you heard wrong. That’s most certainly not true.” Regis assures him.

“Are you sure?” Ameer sidles over to him. “You do not look at a moth and think, oh, how juicy?”

“No, I don’t.”

His protests otherwise only encourage Ameer. He nudges Regis in the ribs, grinning.

“Oh, hello my dear, my name is Regis.” He mimics Regis’s voice with frightening accuracy. It must be an aguara trick. An auditory illusion? “I am Regis the vampire, and I just _love_ to eat insects.”

“Ameer…”

He leans his arm against Regis’s shoulder. “When I see a fly buzzing around a room, my stomach begins to rumble! Mmm, they are just so exquisite, my dear!” He holds out the flat of his palm in front of Regis’s face. It’s suddenly covered in insects – flies and spiders. “Do you want some delicious insects, Regis?”

They’re very, very realistic. Regis is not squeamish about insects in any way, but he shakes his head anyway. “I think I’ll turn down your offer.”

“Oh, but I got this treat especially for you!” Ameer watches him mischievously. “You really do not want these tasty insects, sadiqaa raeb?”

Regis looks back down at the insects. They do look disgusting. But after all that philosophical talk, it’s nice to see Ameer being cheerful. This isn’t Regis’s usual kind of humour, but for the sake of levity he plays along.

He takes a squirming spider and, only hesitating for a moment, pops it into his mouth. Instantly, the spider turns into a raspberry against his tongue.

“Ha! You really put it in your mouth!” Ameer looks delighted. He holds out his hand again. “You want some more?”

Regis takes one of the spiders, then tries to shove it into Ameer’s mouth. Ameer turns his head, and the raspberries is crushed against his cheek instead.

“Oh, we are playing this game now?” Ameer presses his whole palm up against Regis’s cheek. A whole handful of raspberries is now smeared on him.

“Ah!” Regis wipes off some of the crushed berries from his cheek. “You…” His own playful side gives in, and he attempts to wipe the mess back onto Ameer’s face. Ameer grabs his wrists with surprising strength, trying to force them back onto Regis’s own face. They struggle with each other, until another impish smile creeps onto Ameer's face.

With no warning, he leans forwards and licks Regis’s nose. It surprises Regis enough to give Ameer the upper hand. He forces Regis’s own berry covered hand back onto his own face.

“All right, all right, you win!” He protests. Ameer stops his fruitful onslaught, laughing. He has a delightful laugh, Regis thinks. Pleasant to the ear. Almost melodic in nature.

“Oh…It has been so long since I have laughed like this.” Ameer takes out a cloth from his bag, still grinning. “But I have made a mess of your face. Here, let me wipe it off.”

Regis stays still as Ameer wipes away the crushed raspberries. Somehow, he’s glad to have made Ameer laugh. Such simple pleasures can do wonders for the psyche. 

The raven lands on Regis’s shoulder, looking between the two with confusion.

_Insect berry? Insect insect or insect berry? _Ameer’s illusions certainly work on ravens, then.

_Those were just berries. Ameer can create illusions, you see._

_I understand. Fox friend very clever good magic!_

Ameer watches curiously. “That raven is very familiar with you. Why does he follow you?”

“Hm…I’m not entirely sure. I suppose it may be because I helped free him from a wagon wheel, although he’s going much further to repay that debt, and he hasn’t mentioned it since. He simply offered up his services, and I agreed.” Regis smiles. “Now, if I were to guess, I would say he’s a young and excitable individual who finds the whole thing to be some sort of adventure, and wants to prove himself to be strong and clever to his raven friends.”

“That is a lot of personality in one bird.” Ameer remarks.

“Well, ravens have lots of it. For a bird, anyway. And I’m certainly not going to shun his help.” He doesn’t mention how he's also pleased to have another friend.

“Does he have a name?” Ameer asks.

“Of sorts. Ravens have their own ways of identifying each other. As for a formal name, at least so you know which raven I’m talking about…I might have something in mind. It’s silly, I know.”

“Please, tell me.” Ameer says curiously.

“…Tatanu.”

Ameer thinks about it. “Tatanu.” He repeats. “I like it.”

Regis smiles. “Tatanu it is.”

Eventually, they reach another path, leading up to a small blue and white hut with a thatched roof. Surrounding the hut, Regis can see beds of flowers and herbs, fenced off to keep hungry rabbits from snacking on the wares.

“A herbalist. Perhaps he’ll be willing to do some trade.” Regis wonders.

As they get closer, Regis spots a halfling sitting in the garden, pulling out weeds from the soil.

“Excuse me!” Regis calls over to him.

The halfling looks up, and waves them over. He stands up, brushing dirt off his trousers and hands. “Good morning, gentlemen. Otto Bamber, herbalist.” He introduces himself. “How can I help you?”

“Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation. I am Ameer, and this is Regis. He likes to eat insects.” Ameer speaks up suddenly.

“No, I don’t.” Regis says quickly, stopping by the fence. “We were wondering if you’d like to trade. Unless we’ve come at an inopportune time.”

“No, no, not at all.” He leaves the garden, and opens the door for them. “Please, come in.”

They follow him into his house, which is cluttered with boxes and jars of herbs. In fact, there isn’t much room to even walk.

“Sorry for the mess. I’ve been clearing out my basement, you see.” He looks at Ameer, noticing his ears. “You’re clearly not from round here. Zerrikania? Ofier? Hannu?”

“Ofier.”

“Do elves in Ofier have escape routes in their houses, too?” Otto asks.

“Escape routes? Why would we have those?”

“Ah, so you're treated more fairly down there, then.” Otto perceives. “Up here, we’re always suffering from pogroms and racisms and whatnot. Had a real bad time of it four years ago. Things’ve calmed down since then, but we certainly haven’t forgotten how quickly humans can turn against us.” He gestures to the mess around him. “Escape routes are the fashion among nonhumans now. Building tunnels from our basements, away to a safer place, in case a mob comes knocking on our doors or tries to burn our houses down. In Novigrad it’s easier – plenty of pre-existing tunnels and sewers to take advantage of – but it’s taking me a bit longer, out here in the countryside.”

“Escape routes…” Ameer considers this thoughtfully. “That is not a bad idea.” Regis wonders what he’s thinking of.

“So, what would you like to trade?” Otto yawns. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve been having some awful night’s sleep recently.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is it the protests in Oxenfurt?” Regis asks.

“Oh, no, that’s too far away for me to hear. No, I can hear people traipsing around the forest at god awful hours in the morning. But enough complaining from me. What do you have?”

Regis opens his bag, taking out the ebony spleenwort from his bag. “Would these interest you?”

“Oh, goodness me.” The halfling peers at the leaves, wide eyed. “Where did you find those? No offence, but you don’t strike me as the type to go climbing down caves.”

“You’re not wrong there. It was simply a lucky find.”

“Well, there are plenty of herbs I could offer you in return – or just money, if you’re looking for some crowns.”

“Show me your collection.” Regis is curious to see what’s in store.

Alongside herbs, Otto seems to have a great deal of alchemy recipes, including manuscripts for various witcher potions – tawny owl, white Raffard’s decoction, Killer Whale, Blizzard and Swallow, to name a few.

But it’s a plant that catches Regis’ eye. Lush and green, with pearl white flowers sprouting from the ends.

“What is that?” He asks, not recognising the plant.

The halfling scratches his head. “Truth be told…I don’t know. Found a good crop of them growing by the river banks, so I took some out of curiosity. Can’t find them in any of my books, either.”

“Do you recognise it, Ameer?”

Ameer peers at the leaves carefully. “Hm…The shape of the leaves, the width of them – plants in Ofier are similar, to deal with the heat. But this is not Ofieri, I do not recognise it.”

“From the southern climates, then?” Otto nods thoughtfully. “That makes sense. Some Ofieri merchants moved to the northern kingdoms a few years ago – I hear they live in Novigrad now. I think some of the plants and seeds they brought with them have managed to spread into the wild.”

Ameer doesn’t look thrilled to hear about these Ofieri people again. He quickly changes the topic.

“What is written in your book, Regis?”

Ah, yes. The book that Cerys and Hjalmar gave to him. Regis takes out the tome from his bag, the golden snake on the cover reflecting the weak sun that shines through the windows.

“Let me see…It looks as if it belongs to the hyssop family, perhaps…” He flicks quickly through the pages, glancing at the illustrations with each turned page – until he finds one that looks identical.

“Hannu pennywort.” Hannu lies south of Nilfgaard, not far from Ofier. That would explain the similarities. This is certainly a remarkable tome, to list species so far from Skellige. He reads the description quickly. It seems the stalk has different medicinal properties, primarily as a disinfectant to stop the spread of infection. Hm. If they come across that poison again, this could prevent the strange toxin from spreading dangerously far into the body.

However, it’s the next paragraph that catches Regis’s attention.

‘_Hannu pennywort’s perhaps least well known, but most interesting, feature is its remarkable anti-confusion and anti-hallucinatory properties. The plant has been used by doctors to ease the delusions of psychotic patients, or those suffering from fever-induced hallucinations. For protection against more hostile, deliberately evoked hallucinations, the plant can be enchanted with True Sight, and the stalks and leaves ingested. Doing so will show the hallucinations for what they are – nothing. Though it will not show the difference between reality and illusions created by creatures inherently imbued with shape shifting or illusory powers, such as Dopplers or Vulpesses, any who try to cast illusory spells will fail.’_

Interesting. He gestures to the plant. “How much is that going for?”

“I’ll give you the whole batch for the ebony spleenwort and 40 crowns.”

After a moment of consideration, Regis nods. Who knows what other tricks Tye has waiting for them. “Yes, let’s do that.”

“Anything else?”

Ameer holds up one of the dead birds. “Would you be willing to buy?”

Otto thinks about it. “What else do you have? Aside from birds?”

“A rabbit.”

“Ah.” Otto looks considerably more interested. “With the pelt?”

“Yes.”

Otto examines it. “You managed to hit the eye, not damage the pelt. Very good. Fur for the scarf I’m making, and the meat for supper this evening. I’ll pay you 20 crowns.”

“Deal.” They exchange goods, Ameer looking happily down at the crowns he’s earned for himself.

Before the herbalist can thank them for business, a voice suddenly shouts from outside the hut.

“Otto!”

The herbalist sighs, closing his eyes.

“Otto! I know you’re in there!”

“Who’s that?” Regis asks. It sounds like a woman, with a strong northern accent.

“No one important.” Otto hastily moves to the door, opening it and stepping outside, closing the door firmly behind him. Despite this effort to create some privacy, Regis can still hear him perfectly.

“Look, lady, I’ve told you not to come here anymore.”

“I know you did.”

“So why are you here? I’m not selling you any more beggartick.”

“I don’t know why you’re so against it. Word is, you sheltered a master thief or some such in this hut o’ yours. I’m just wanting to sell a bit of fisstech, is all. That’s practically nothin’ in comparison!”

“I’ve had enough of criminals coming to me, so I don’t want any more to do with it.”

“Well, you won’t sell it to me, so I have to find it myself. If you tell me where it grows, then maybe I’ll stop having to come to you.”

Otto sighs, and after a few moments of frustrated silence, he speaks. “They grow near rivers. Not right by the edge, about 10 feet either side of the bank. Or in swampy biomes.”

“There we go! That weren’t hard, were it?”

“I wouldn’t get too involved in that sort of thing if I were you, though. You’ll incur the wrath of crime bosses if you’re not careful.”

“Well, you’re not me, so you don’t need to worry, love.”

The door opens, and Otto stands sheepishly in the door way. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, and I’d be delighted to do it again in the future.”

“Likewise.” Regis decides it would be polite to pretend he didn’t hear the conversation. “If we ever need to buy some herbs, I’ll know who to come to.”

When he and Ameer leave the herbalist’s hut, they don’t get very far before they’re stopped.

“Oi. What you doin’ here?”

Regis turns to see a woman sitting on the fence surrounding the herb garden. She’s short in stature, with black hair that’s entirely shaved at one side. Despite the cold weather, she wears no scarves, and her blouse cuts low – on her chest, Regis can see several tattoos. Arms on her hips, she regards them with a sharp grin.

“You’re pretty eager, ain’t ya? Wasn’t expecting you till ‘bout eight this evening.”

Regis frowns. “Wait…You sent the letter?”

“Course I did. And you’re that old git travelling round with the witch. Along with your weird little elf friend there.”

“Who are you?” Regis demands. “How do you know Yennefer? And why did you summon us here?”

“Name’s Adela. I don’t know the witch, but I know her boyfriend. Old Puss Peepers did a favour for me, a few years ago or somethin'. And I know that Parviz the Black Market Prick is dead.” She jumps from the fence and strides towards them, entirely confident. “For whatever reason, you seem to be interested in him. And wouldn’t you know, I happen to have some juicy information about who did it.”

Regis narrows his eyes. “Who?”

Adela laughs. “Now, now, don’t have any concrete proof of anything. But Parviz was involved in some shady shite, I can guarantee that. And, lucky for you,” she smiles, “I know exactly what that shady shite was.”

“What do you want?” Money? An impossible favour?

“Less business competitors.” She replies. “Where’s miss Yennefer?”

“She’s at the inn we were supposed to meet at.”

“Well. No harm in havin' our little meeting early, I suppose.” She begins to walk down the path, back towards the forest. “You comin' or what?”

Ameer looks at Regis, looking utterly confused. “What did she say? Did she send the letter?”

“She did.” Honestly, this drug dealer was the last person Regis expected to have sent the letter.

“So, what does she know?” Ameer asks.

“I suppose we’ll have to ask her ourselves.” Slowly, Regis begins to follow the odd woman down the path, Ameer close behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -'sadiqaa raeb' is 'my vampire friend' in Ofieri  
\- Tatanu simply means 'bird' in Etruscan, which is the closest language I could find to the vampiric language spoken in the games (I'm very creative haha)


	13. Tales of Ofier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you couldn't remember, Adela is a very minor character from Hearts of Stone, who gives you the quest 'Rose on a Red Field' (I don't think she has a journal entry and she doesn't introduce herself in dialogue, but the name Adela will hover over her when you approach her in game)  
Also, spoilers for the comic Of Flesh and Flame in this chapter (just in case you wanted to read it)

_“ -Hey you! Puss Peepers!_

_ -Name's Geralt._

_ -But I'm gonna call you Puss Peepers. That a problem?_

_ -Get to the point._

_ -Got an offer. Potentially lucrative, Puss Peepers. Someone's killed my mate. Name was Kluivert. You're to figure out who did it. Then cut the bugger's head off.” – A conversation between Adela and Geralt._

It’s well past midday when Regis and Ameer finally return to the Alchemy – led by a woman Yennefer doesn’t recognise.

While Regis has been collecting herbs and Ameer has been hunting for money, Yennefer hasn’t just been sitting idly. First, she washes her boots thoroughly. With some magical help, she’s able to get rid of the mud, and makes a mental note to buy some more in Novigrad. And as she washes her boots, her mind inevitably drifts to Geralt.

He’s awake in there. He _saw her_. He reacted to her presence. And while she wishes she hadn’t used a rather crude method of eliciting that reaction, it’s clear proof the spell is working.

How much is he aware of? Does he know how much she misses him? Oh, how she wishes she could speak to him. She wishes she could teleport back to Skellige and tell Ciri the news. That would definitely cheer her daughter up. There’s so much she wishes she could tell him. Does he know how hard they’re all trying to catch Tye? Does he know they only have two months, or else his soul will be lost forever?

No, she’s allowing catastrophic thoughts to run errant in her mind. Geralt saw her, and she should be happy enough at that. Using that happiness to keep the darker thoughts at bay, she finishes her boots and gets back on track with her task: figuring out where Tye could have gone.

So, she peruses every tome she has with her, scouring their pages intensely. Not for the origin of the poison; she knows from bitter experience that will get her nowhere. This time, trying her best to ignore the shouts from outside, she searches for any and all masking magic that Tye could be searching for. It has already occurred to her that the necklace Tye stole from Parviz might have been enough masking magic for him, and that her research is for nothing, but she needs to try anyway. Besides, it’s not unreasonable to assume he searched for more masking magic, since higher vampires are skilled trackers and wouldn’t be stopped by the necklace he stole.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t make much meaningful progress in her research. That’s not to say she hasn’t found any options. Rather, she has found too many. Spells, alchemy, potions, there’s just too much to choose from. It doesn’t help that masking magic in itself it quite vague. For example, her own necklace exudes what could be classified as masking magic; it prevents other mages and sorceresses from detecting the magic that Yennefer herself uses. Very different from the necklace Tye stole, which simply prevents others from tracking him down with magical means, and yet they have the same classifications.

When her search is too broad, she decides to change her tactics. He wasn’t just interested in masking magic, but also in powerful magical sites and people. Perhaps she should focus more on that.

But there aren’t many magic users in Novigrad anymore. Four years isn’t enough time to ease the painful memories of torture and persecution during Radovid’s reign, the horrific bloodshed and execution, especially when many mages are over one hundred years old. There’s always Philippa Eilhart, who took up position as Emhyr’s formal advisor and now resides somewhere in Nilfgaard-occupied Redania. But then again, Yennefer doubts she would give some odd and scrawny man with a dirty cloth on his forehead the time of day, let alone important magical artefacts or information. Even if she did, Yennefer doesn’t particularly want to visit her old colleague. Philippa has always been brutally competitive and cut-throat, even for a sorceress. Considering Yennefer’s old ties with Nilfgaard, both real and falsely accused, and their vicious arguments in the past regarding Ciri, she has a feeling she wouldn’t be welcome, to say the least. And Philippa certainly isn’t above dirty tricks.

After some fruitless research, Yennefer gets frustrated. She just doesn’t have enough books, that’s it. There are so many magic hotspots across Redania and Temeria, even her vast knowledge can’t cover every small detail. And all that shouting is really getting on her nerves.

For her next course of action, Yennefer decides to pay the Oxenfurt Academy a visit. She knows some professors who teach there, so perhaps they can help her, or at least allow her to borrow the necessary books.

But that plan turns into a failure, too. After wasting time being shoved, nudged and elbowed by protesting crowds, Yennefer learns that the university is closed, thanks to said protests. Determined to gain some use out of the trip, she asks for Professor Shakeslock. An odd professor, but one so devoted to his research, even a protest wouldn’t stop him.

As it turns out, he’s dead. He died a few years ago. None of the Nilfgaardian soldiers could tell her anything about it. Their sparse detail on the matter isn’t deliberate – some quick mind reading tells her that they honestly don’t know what happened, and that the previous Redanian soldiers were, for whatever reason, very secretive about the matter.

Cold, tired, her head aching from the shouting and bustle of the protest, and utterly frustrated at her lack of progress, Yennefer is certainly not in the best of moods when she reaches the Alchemy Inn again. 

So, she certainly doesn’t appreciate it when someone shouts at her from across the streets.

“Oi, witch lady!”

Frowning, Yennefer turns to see a short woman with cropped and shaved hair striding over to her. She wears knee high leather boots, a low-cut maroon jumper that’s stained suspiciously, and surprisingly expensive golden earrings embedded with topaz. She carries a small black pot with one hand; the other rests at the hilt of the sabre hanging from her belt. Regis and Ameer follow from behind, the latter with bird carcasses hanging from his belt.

“Who is this?” Yennefer asks Regis.

“Name’s Adela.” The woman answers sharply before Regis can say anything. “I’m the one who told you to come here.”

“You sent the letter?” Yennefer can’t disguise the surprise in her voice.

“I did.” The woman stretches casually, looking at the Alchemy inn. “And I’ve decided that our original meeting place is a little too busy today.” She points at the birds by Ameer’s belt. “We’re gonna go cook one of them birds that your elf friend has caught. I’ve even fetched a pot for us to use.”

“I’d rather not.” For all Yennefer knows, this woman could be leading them into an ambush.

“Oh, let me explain. We’re doin' what I want to do, or I’m not tellin' you what you need to know.”

“And what would that be?”

“Where you can find Parviz’s murderer.” She continues walking. “Come on, then. I’m starvin’, I am.”

Yennefer grabs Regis’s wrist. “Who is she?”

“A petty drug dealer, it seems.” He replies wryly. “But she insists knowing something about Parviz’s murderer. She doesn’t seem like the most trust worthy type, to be entirely honest, but she doesn’t seem particularly dangerous, either.”

Yennefer sighs. “…Well, I suppose we have no choice. But we should stay alert, be ready to fight if necessary. And Ameer, keep that medallion hidden.”

Ameer nods, quickly tucking the medallion beneath his clothes.

Warily, they follow the woman through the streets of Oxenfurt, and out of the Novigrad gate. She moves at a leisurely pace, deliberately confident and relaxed. Yennefer, too, feigns casual disinterest, both hiding her caution and her eagerness to get information.

Eventually, they stop in a grassy field opposite a forest, and a blue painted hut in the short distance. Regis frowns when he sees it.

“We were just here. Why did we walk all the way back?”

“Well, we had to get your friend, didn’t we?” Adela says bluntly. “And I wanted a pot to cook this food.”

“We didn’t all need to go.” Regis insists. “I could have just gone myself.” He doesn’t say it, but Yennefer assumes he would have turned into mist, a far quicker method of transportation than all of them walking there and back.

“Well, it was a nice walk, weren’t it?”

Regis goes silent. She’s deliberately wasting their time, Yennefer realises, forcing them to comply with her stupid whims, just to emphasise that she holds all the cards in this situation. To show that she’s in charge of this situation, and they have to do whatever she says.

Right now, Yennefer has no choice but to play along. And she’s come across these kinds of people before. Resisting and complaining only encourages them to play with their power more, make even more inconvenient demands. “Yes, it was. Now, shall we start cooking this bird?”

Regis fills the pot up with water from a running river, and boils it thoroughly. Ameer lays out a cloth and begins plucking and jointing the bird on it, then cuts up the meat into chunks using a knife borrowed from Regis. He had hesitated to use the beautiful knife Hjalmar gave him for such a menial task, so Regis had quickly offered his own. He makes sure to fully sterilise it over the fire before using it. Carefully, he puts the meat into the pot, and then Regis adds herbs and thick mushrooms cut into slivers. Soon, an aromatic stew is brewing.

Yennefer stays still, sitting on the grass the entire time, but she isn’t being idle. Her attention is focused on Adela.

The woman is sitting on the grass next to her, with that smug confidence still all over her face. She sharpens a knife with a piece of flint, not looking up at Regis’s and Ameer’s preparations even once.

“It’s ready.” Regis announces, handing out wooden bowls.

“Thank you, Regis, Ameer.” Yennefer smiles and takes a bowl. “It smells lovely.” She isn’t going to argue with this woman, but she isn’t going to show herself being rattled, either.

In actuality, the stew is very nice. With all her research, Yennefer hadn’t realised how hungry she was. The mushroom and herbs give the stew a nice flavour, and the meat both fills and warms her up.

Regis eats his quietly, only asking if the others are enjoying it. Ameer is entirely silent as he eats, and when he finishes, he takes out the now-bare bird skull and begins carving runes on it with his knife.

“This is very good. You had a good harvest from the forest then, Regis?” She strikes up casual conversation.

“Autumn is always a plentiful time for foraging. These forests are particularly abundant with life.”

Quickly, Yennefer glances at Adela from the corner of her eye. When she tries to read the woman’s thoughts, she gets nothing but smugness.

_How much should I charge them for this information? The witch is dangerous, I’d best not piss her off too much…but I can probably haggle a decent amount. Not like they’ll figure it out themselves. That was good stew. These two chefs or somethin’? Bet Olgierd would’ve hired them._

Nothing useful at all. Though she does legitimately have some information for them, it seems.

“Give me some more, would you?” Adela holds out her already empty bowl to Regis, who hesitantly ladles some more stew into it.

“Ah, here we go…” She blows on it, and eats it quickly. “I’ve gotta agree with the witch here. This is some damn good stew.”

When no one says anything in response to this, she laughs. “You’re a fun lot, ain’t you?”

“Well, let’s just say we have a lot on our minds right now.” Yennefer says vaguely.

Swallowing another mouthful of stew, Adela asks, “You really care about Parviz or something? Had good wares – the real wares, not the shite stuff he sold up front – but he was a whoreson, he was. You mates or somethin'?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Oh, of course, it’s them guys that got arrested for the crime, isn’t it? You wanna prove them innocent?”

“If we can.” Yennefer frowns. “How did you know about the ‘real wares’?”

Adela wipes her mouth and stretches. “Ah, a good meal! Warmed me right up!” She glances at Yennefer’s face, and then at Regis’s. She grins when she sees their frustration.

“All right, all right. I’ll stop windin’ you up.” She puts her hands on her knees. “You wanna know about Parviz? Here’s the deal.”

Yennefer leans closer. Here it is. Finally, they’ll know if their detour to Oxenfurt was worth the time and effort.

“You see, I used to travel around with this guy and his troops. Olgierd von Everec, he was called. We were called the Redanian Free Company. Right good fun he was. We’d get drunk, party, have a cheeky bit of fisstech, get into fights. It was a good time. And he had a taste for fine art, but no venues would ever dare sell to a bloke like him. So he had to get his paintings and sculptures and whatever from other sources – sources like Parviz.”

Yennefer remembers seeing stolen art works in Parviz’s secret compartment. So, there’s truth to her words. And Yennefer cannot detect any dishonesty in her thoughts.

“Later on, von Everec began to lose it a bit. Went to Parviz for all sorts of weird and dodgey artefacts. Black magic stuff, you know? Don’t know why. He was a bit mental like that. Heard he cursed a man into a monster toad by accident. Thought it was horseshit, but it turned out to be the gods honest truth. Anyway, ‘bout three years ago, your friend Puss Peepers shows up. He does a job for me, kills the pricks who murdered my friend. And von Everec buggers off with some new identity and self-realisation bollocks. Shortly after, Redania falls. Black Ones take over.”

Adela looks across at all of them, her gaze lingering on each member of the group individually. “You know much about the Black Ones?”

“Yes, we do.” Yennefer has had far too much experience, in fact.

“Good. Then you’ll know that they swept over Redania like a fucking plague. People were bein’ hung constantly. The gangs were almost wiped out. But,” she smiles, “they didn’t disappear. We just learnt to adapt.”

“I assume you’re involved with dealing fisstech.” Regis guesses.

“You assume right. So many other drug dealers were executed by the Black Ones. I saw an openin’ – a business opportunity, if you will – and I took it.”

“Are you not worried? About being caught?” Ameer asks, his first input into the conversation. He’s been struggling to understand her accent.

“Nah. The ones who got caught, it’s ‘cause they didn’t adapt. Focused too much on territory, on fightin’ with other gangs. That ain’t a problem for me. There aren’t any gangs left to fight with. Well. Except one.” She corrects herself.

“And who would that be?” Yennefer asks.

“Don’t know the individual members, but I know where they’re based. See, I was buyin’ herbs off that halfling – some very particular herbs, if you understand me – and he was complaining about people makin’ noise. Thought to myself, nowhere big or crowded enough to make that kind of noise out here. Not even from Oxenfurt. So, I stayed up one night. Crept out here and hid by the halfling’s hut. That’s when I saw ‘em.” She pauses for effect. “Strings of people headin’ down through the forest. I followed ‘em, till they reached an old elven ruin. Lots of people goin’ in. They spent hours in there, come out all smug like, and next day a bunch of drug deals are made, encroachin’ on my territory. A new drug called grisial.”

She collects the trace remains of the stew in her bowl. “So, I made it a habit to go stake them out. I see who comes and goes. I see ‘em bringin’ in equipment, materials, safety equipment – it becomes damn well clear what they’re doin’, and drug deals soar in Novigrad with this new grisial. Makin’ fisstech look like child’s play by comparison. Problem is, can’t figure out how the bloody hell they’re doin’ it. They’re selling the wares somehow, but the Black Ones are none the wiser. There’s this one guy, he goes there every week. Has a big cape, and the workers are at his beck and call. He’s the boss man.”

“Who is he?” Yennefer asks.

“Dunno. Never got a good look at his face. And those people are well armed. Even with my own crew, wouldn’t wanna start a fight right in their turf. I’m smart, see.”

“Yes, of course.” Yennefer says vaguely. “So some drug dealers are using the elven ruins as a base of their operations. What does that have to do with Parviz?”

Adela grins. “’Cause I saw him there. He walked straight into those ruins.”

Yennefer and Regis share a glance. “He walked into the ruins?”

“Yeah. Brought there by the boss man. He was carrying a big box. Didn’t look happy to be there, either.”

“What happened?”

“He went in for an hour or two, then came out without the box. Then, a few months later, he’s dead.” She leans forwards. “That whoreson gave them somethin', to help with their operation. One of his black market gizmos under the shop, I mean. And even though he was up to his balls in debt, he was one stingy bastard. Always tryin’ to find any way to make a profit, no matter how risky it was. He had no loyalties to anyone, so you can bet your left tit that he tried to outsmart this gang, tried to make a bit of money off them, and they got pissed off. And you don’t want to piss off a drug dealer.”

“So, you’re saying that Parviz helped these supposed drug dealers, and then when he tried to financially out manoeuvre them, they killed him?” Yennefer asks.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, sweetheart. Now, could I prove this? No. Do I want to? No. I’m a tough lady, and I have more than a few fellas who’d be happy to go kick in some teeth on my behalf. But even I know this is way above me. And that’s where you come in.”

Yennefer narrows her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you were the ones who asked what I wanted. And I told you, I want less business competitors. See, dealin’ in the new Redania is a lot harder than it used to be. Black Ones’ll throw people in jail at the slightest hint of wrongdoing. And dealin’ was already hard – not because of the witch hunters, they didn’t give a shit about fisstech. Hell, they were some of the most loyal customers. But all the territories, all the gang wars, dealers murderin’ other dealers…If I want to pull off my operations without getting strung up, I could do without other dealin’ whoresons trying to slit my throat. Now, of course, a few crowns wouldn’t go amiss for this most valuable information…”

Of course. Yennefer resists rolling her eyes. No information is free.

“But I think we have a mutual partnership here.” Adela continues. “I know your mates were framed for Parviz’s murder. You find out the identities of who really killed him, bring this little drug operation down in the process, get your mates free, and in the process you’ll be doing me a favour getting rid of my competitors. And I know you can handle it. Puss Peepers was a strong whoreson, could beat even old Olgierd in a fight. Managed to kill that monster frog or somethin’, too. I reckon, any friend of Puss Peeps must be good enough to deal with those dealers just fine. And I know a witch like you could kill anyone in a fight if you wanted to. So,” she stands up, “you want to see these ruins?”

Yennefer glances at Regis and nods. He nods back. This could still be an ambush, but she also hasn’t picked up on any murderous thoughts, any notion of tricking them.

“…Yes. Show us these ruins, then.”

Adela grins, and holds out her hand. “That’ll be 90 crowns.”

Begrudgingly, Yennefer opens up her coin purse and hands over the crowns. It’s very light now.

Adela counts the money and, satisfied, puts it away in her own bag. “All right, then, let’s go.”

She leads them through the forest and slowly up hill, far from the trodden paths and roads. While Yennefer, Regis and Ameer follow at a slower place, Adela traverses the forest floor with ease, vaulting over logs and ducking under low-hanging branches fluidly. This is a route she’s taken many times before.

Finally, she stops by a grove of trees on the top of the hill, overlooking craggy rock with deep crevices, at least 100m from the ground. A tree trunk has been dragged near the edge of the cliff, a cloth draped on the top, and the plants have been somewhat flattened here. Vegetation right at the edge blocks the view, but when Adela moves it away, Yennefer can see a cave entrance blocked by sheer rock.

“This is where I sit.” She explains. “If you part the bushes you can see people walkin’ down there, but they can’t see you from up here.” She points to the cave. It’s nestled between the cliffs in the crevice, but a smooth slab of rock sits in the entrance.

“That’s the entrance to the ruins. I’ve been in there as a kid, and that slab at the front is definitely new. They put somethin’ on the rock, it glows, and opens. No clue how to open it myself. Maybe you’ll figure it out, since you know about magic and all that shit.”

“Thank you for this information.” Regis says. “It should prove to be most useful.”

Adela smiles. “Well, you focus hard on proving your friend’s innocence and bringin’ down those drug dealers. Then, who knows?” She begins walking away from the grove, calling over her shoulder. “Perhaps one day, if you’re in need of some _special_ substances, I’ll give you a discount.”

“Much obliged.” Yennefer says dryly. “Although I’m sure we won’t take you up on that offer.”

“If you say so.” The woman gives them a mock salute, and then disappears back into the forest.

When her footsteps have faded into the distance, Yennefer turns to Regis and Ameer.

“She wasn’t lying. This could very well be linked to Parviz’s murder.”

“I agree. And my raven found some trodden ebony spleenwort – those are normally only found within caves. People transporting things in and out of the ruins could have accidentally brought some back up with them.”

“Do you think you can get in through that entrance, Regis?”

He peers down through the foliage. “…I’m afraid not. It looks airtight to me, so turning into mist isn’t an option. There’ll be other openings around here somewhere, otherwise they’d suffocate in that cave, but that could take a while to find, and you wouldn’t be able to follow.”

“You would not be able to open up the stone slab for us to follow, either.” Ameer sits on the log, staring down at it.

Yennefer peers down at the cave entrance. “Whatever they’re using to open it is clearly magical, but if I can see what they use to get in, I might be able to replicate the magic trace and open it for us.”

“So,” Regis folds his arms, “you mean we’re going to have a lot of waiting to do.”

“Unfortunately. But we came all this way, and it’s a promising lead.” Yennefer sighs. “I’m afraid it just might take a while.”

“Well, we might as well get comfortable, then.” Regis suggests.

Hastily, they create their lookout post among the trees and bushes on the cliff top. Regis decides to return to Oxenfurt and collect some supplies, turning into mist to make the journey faster and unimpeded. Ameer returns to Oxenfurt as well, though he simply walks, wanting to trade the birds for money and to buy more arrows. Yennefer stays at the grove, just in case someone tries to enter the ruins. However, none do, so she busies herself by flattening some of the vegetation and moving the log a little further away from the edge of the cliff. It was far too close for her liking. A clumsy slip, one false move, and the log might roll off. She stabilises it with rocks once she’s done, just in case.

Regis is the first back. She spies black mist billowing up the hill and pooling into the grove, where it materialises into her vampiric companion. He carries with him some blankets, and his bag looks considerably fuller than before.

“Here.” He passes her the blankets. “We don’t know how long we’ll be waiting. The herbalist mentioned he’d been kept up at night by the noise, so we could be here a long time.”

“Ah, thank you.” She places one down on the ground, having crumpled up Adela’s blanket and shoved it in the bushes, not wanting to sleep on it. When she picked it up, it had stank of fisstech. “This way, we can take turns watching the cave entrance while the other sleeps. And I mean really take turns.” She gives him a look, after how he purposefully took the whole shift last night. “In fact, I’ll even take the first shift.”

He allows the unsubtle remark. “Of course. And if I see anyone approach the cave, I shall wake you up immediately. Your knowledge of the magic arts and its associated artefacts is far more exhaustive than mine.” He opens up his bag, taking out a large cloth sack. “I also acquired some food, some of which I foraged for myself. Nothing fancy, but it should tide us over.”

“Excellent. I’m afraid we might be relying on your foraging and Ameer’s hunting for the time being. My financial supplies are somewhat lacking right now.”

Soon enough, Ameer arrives back at the grove too – far less dramatically than Regis. He simply climbs back up the hill, moving with ease this time. The birds are no longer at his belt, and his quiver looks fuller than it did before.

“Here. Hold out your hand, Yennefer.” When she obliges, he places a stack of 50 crowns into her palms. “It is nowhere near the cost of the bow, but I hope it should make a start.”

“Please, Ameer, you don’t need to pay me back.” Yennefer insists, but Ameer shakes his head.

“I would like you to have at least this money, for it will be far more of use for you than it will for me.”

Yennefer accepts this, and puts the money away into her purse. “Thank you.”

Ameer sits down on the log. “Ah, this is better. We will not fall off the cliff. Shall I create an illusion to hide us from whoever is down below?”

“I don’t think we’ll need to. We’re too high up here for anyone to see us well. And I’d rather you preserve your energy for when we really need it.”

“Good point.” Ameer looks out onto the road leading to the cave. “I suppose we cannot cook here, then. I was thinking of catching a fish…”

“But you don’t have a rod.” Yennefer frowns. “How were you planning to catch it?”

“Oh, I do not need a rod to catch fish.” He says simply.

“Really?”

“No. I am quite experienced catching fish without rods.”

“I thought you said you lived by the mountain foothills.” Yennefer remembers.

“I did. But every spring, my mother would take us to the nearest river. She taught us to catch fish there, while they were migrating to breed.”

“And how do you catch them?” Yennefer asks.

“Well, sometimes we would use spears in our elf form, but mostly we would catch them in our base form by the river shallows.”

“I suppose that took a lot of practice to get good at.”

“Actually,” he raises his head proudly, “I was very good. I learnt quickly.”

Yennefer smiles. “Really? I can imagine you falling in a lot.”

“What? No. I did not.” He insists.

“Fine, if you say so…” She says with mock coyness. 

He folds his arms, then smiles mischievously . “Believe me or not, but I am sure that even as a child, I was a better fisher than you are now.”

“What? Surely not.”

“I think _you_ would fall in.” He grins sharply. “And you would get all wet.”

“I wouldn’t need to fall in. I’d just use my magic on the closest fish.”

“Fish are surprisingly fast. You would miss.”

“I have very good aim.”

Ameer looks down at the road. “I would challenge you to prove me wrong, but it does not matter. A fire would draw their attention. Unless there are other methods…I suppose there’s smoking…”

Instantly, his face falls. The good humour in his expression vanishes, dries up like a puddle in drought. For a moment, he stares into empty space. Silent.

“…Ameer? Are you all right?” Yennefer asks hesitantly, surprised at his dramatic change in mood.

He shakes himself. “Yes. I apologise.” His voice is quieter than before.

Regis steps forwards. “You know, I once spent some time at Mahakam. The dwarves who live there cook fish on rocks heated by small fires, using timber that produces minimal amounts of smoke. Perhaps we should mimic their technique, so we're not spotted.”

At this, Ameer’s face brightens. “Ah, that is a good idea. I shall catch one.” He smiles at Yennefer. “Would you like to come with me? So then I can see your fishing skills.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I should keep an eye on the road, in case anyone comes.”

When he leaves, Regis turns quietly to Yennefer. “Smoking fish is a method widely used in Skellige.”

“Oh.” The realisation hits her. “Oh, I see.”

“I wonder if he remembered something unpleasant. Poor thing.”

“Yes. He must have remembered something.” She just wishes she knew what.

When Ameer returns, though, he seems in a much better mood again, so Yennefer decides against bringing it up. Triumphantly, he holds up a salmon.

“Here. See? And I am not even wet.”

“Very impressive.” It’s true, he’s not wet at all. “How did you catch it?”

“I tied string to an arrow and used it to drag in the fish once I hit it. Still, it is a little early to eat yet, so soon after that stew.”

“Well, I’ll start preparing it now anyway.” Regis decides. “It’s been a long while since I’ve seen that method of cooking, so it will most likely take me considerable time to correctly deduce the exact method. Though I can safely say we need to scrape off the scales first.”

Regis collects rocks and begins preparing a very small, gentle fire. Ameer hangs up the fish from the branch of a tree, while Yennefer sterilises Regis’s knife with a simple fire spell. She supposes she could just use her magic to cook the fish, but controlled, gentle heating – as opposed to a crude fireball that would turn the fish to charcoal – has always made her feel terribly sick, and she’d rather save her energy.

Ameer takes the knife, and begins removing the scales of the fish. As he does so, he asks, “that woman. She talked about a man…Olgierd?”

“Olgierd von Everec.” Yennefer confirms.

“And Geralt knew him?”

“Yes, I was wondering about that.” Regis joins in. “He never mentioned knowing such a man to me.”

“I knew that they met, and that’s it.” Yennefer admits. “He was very…scarce on details. For some reason, he didn’t like to talk about it. Said he’d explain one day, just…not that day. Nor the next time I asked.”

“I see.” Fish scales litter the ground. “Do you know anything about this…Olgierd?”

“I know of the von Everec family. Their sons, Olgierd and Vlodomir, are rich bandits who think their wealth and interest in the arts makes them somehow above that of the common bandits who plague the north. But that’s all they are. Bandits. Or were.” She adds. “Their family has long since vanished, and their estate with it. I heard they fell into financial problems.”

“I see. She mentioned this Olgierd cursing a man into a ‘monster toad’. Is this true?” Ameer asks.

“I don’t know.” Yennefer admits.

“I suppose it’s possible. Though, such an intense curse is rare for a non-magic user to cast.” Regis looks at Ameer. “Why do you ask?”

Ameer wipes silver scales off the blade off the knife. “I was wondering if this man was the one who cursed my prince. Prince Sirvat of Ofier.” When he sees their confused expressions, he clarifies. “Prince Sirvat, who was killed by Geralt?”

Yennefer freezes. She glances at Regis, who looks just as tense and surprised as she does.

“…What do you mean?” She asks slowly. “You don’t mean our Geralt?”

He looks entirely calm. “Of course. I do not know any other Geralts.” He notices their shock. “Do you not know?”

“…He never mentioned it.”

“Nor to me.” Regis adds.

“Oh. Everyone in Ofier knows. Geralt of Rivia, regicidal monster, they call him. Geralt the Prince Killer. Our prince went to the continent, wanting to learn more about the cultures of this land for when he became king. But he was cursed, turned into a monster frog. And before the King’s mages could cure him, he was eviscerated by a witcher called Geralt of Rivia, who escaped from the king’s mages.”

He says it so casually, as if he wasn’t talking about a man who supposedly committed regicide towards the prince of his nation. A man whose soul he carries. He makes no move to rip off the medallion from his neck, to crush it beneath his foot.

“…You’re very nonchalant about this.” Regis speaks up, clearly thinking the same thing as Yennefer.

“Of course. I am not angry. I knew who he was the moment I saw him, heard his name. But if I was angry, I would not have looked after him in the wilds of Skellige.”

“Well…why aren’t you angry?” Yennefer dares to ask.

Ameer looks between the two of them. “You really know nothing about this situation?”

“Well, if Olgierd von Everec was involved in any way, then like I said, Geralt wasn’t fond of talking about it.”

Ameer nods thoughtfully. “Let us cook the fish. Then I shall explain.”

The sun is beginning to set when Regis has finished cooking the fish. He hands out slices of the fish, garnished with some berries, and chunks of bread from his bag. The bread is a little stale, most likely due to the Oxenfurt protests interfering with crop imports, but the fish is wonderfully fresh. Regis has done a good job of taking out the bones.

“…Neither of you have visited Ofier, have you?” Ameer asks. “In the time we have been apart, I assume you did not travel there, Yennefer.”

“That’s correct.” She confirms.

“I’ve never been, either.” Regis tells him.

“I see. I have told you about Ofier before Yennefer, but Regis, you probably are not familiar with the people and politics of Ofier.” He looks into the glowing timber, their low light still warm, no smoke leaving their flames. “We are not one nation, like Temeria or Redania. We are many tribes and groups, united by one malliq, but still with our own councils and representatives.”

He takes a stick, and draws in the dirt four circles. “There are those who live in the steppes, fierce horse riders and nomadic herders. Those who live in the mountains, who carved tunnels into the rocks and sheltered from the elements. Those who live in the desert, where caravans travel from oasis to oasis with the seasons. And there are those who live by the ocean, who survived entirely off the waves and their hidden resources. Soon, those oceanic dwellers created a port town, began trading to both their neighbours and those from across the sea. That port town grew larger and larger, began expanding into the surrounding environments. Many left the life of oceanic nomads, and learnt to tame the scrublands around them. They kept on building until they created a beautiful city – a city that would one day become our capital, where the palace would reside.”

“That’s a lot of different environments.” Regis remarks.

“Yes. And there are many different tribes, different religions, different deities and beliefs. I was alive when these regions were separate entities, when the nation of ‘Ofier’ did not yet exist.” Being 300 years old means living through all sorts of changes, after all.

“After many hardships, after disputes and arguments between our tribes, after being invaded by our neighbours Zangvebar, and facing terrible raids from a Skelligan pirate called Yustianna, we became united under one malliq and Ofier was born. I will not bore you too much with unnecessary details, for it is not important. But, I must emphasise, we are not all assimilated into the culture of our capital. We still live in different tribes, different parts of our nation. And though we are all connected, though we all have one malliq – one king, who resides in that former port town – we have different cultures, traditions and beliefs. And, most importantly, different views on the politics of our country. Our capital has glorious buildings and philosophers, artists, inventors, and the palace is built here. But those who live there are very dedicated to the royal family.”

“So, Ofier has a monarchy, despite having so many separate tribes?” Regis asks.

“Yes. Allow me to explain. Each tribe has their own chieftain, and when the current king or queen dies, or is doing a particularly bad job and is removed, each are given the opportunity to present their own champions as potential new rulers of Ofier. If they do, then the royal family must engage in challenges against this new candidate, and the councils of the tribes vote on who they like the most.”

That’s similar to how Skellige operates, Yennefer thinks. But she doesn’t dare mention that.

“However, the royal family have ruled Ofier for almost the entirety of its formation. When the current malliq dies, most do not challenge the heir. And when they do, the heir normally wins.

“Does that cause any tension between the tribes?” Regis asks.

“It used to, long ago, when the kingdoms were more…unstable. These days, things are better. The tribes are treated fairly, so they do not mind so much. But each tribe views the royals differently. Those who live in the capital city are very dedicated to our king – and his council, and his mage. So whatever the king, or his council, or his mage says, they will believe it. Now, to say everyone who lives in the capital is mindlessly supporting of the royals would be…unfair. But enough of them are to be noticeable. So, when a warrior who worked with the king’s mage Aamad tells us Geralt of Rivia murdered Prince Sirvat and Aamad, they believe it.”

“Ah, I see.” Yennefer nods.

“The nomad herders, they do not care. They live an almost entirely sustainable life on the steppes, and what happens in the capital affects them very little. The mountain dwellers and desert nomads are more affected by the royal family, and they are also wary. You see, before Ofier became united, those who lived in the port town became greedy and tried to invade the other tribes. Mainly, the mountain dwellers and desert nomads. Humans do not live very long, but they keep grudges for a very long time. And so, they are sceptical of what the royals will say, what news comes from the capital. And, since I was brought up in the borders between the deserts and mountains, and since my mother did not care for royals and governors, I heard the other side of the story.”

“And what was that?” Yennefer honestly doesn’t know. She’s very intrigued to hear now.

“I was visiting my family back in the mountains when we heard news of Prince Sirvat's death. A warrior proclaimed that Geralt of Rivia had slaughtered the Prince and the mage, Aamad, when he had been attempting to lift the curse. At the same time, a runewright sent a letter back to his family in the mountains. He had moved from the mountains to the capital, and then was sent to the northern kingdoms to spread the knowledge of his craft. He told of Geralt of Rivia, too, a man who helped return precious stolen manuscripts to his companion from dangerous bandits, who helped invest in his business after he lost all his tools. And he told the story of a witcher who was tricked into taking a contract, who believed he was helping to kill a monster that made the people of the town sick by poisoning the water, a monster that killed any person who went down into the sewers. In his story, Geralt of Rivia killed the monster without knowing it was a prince. The mage arrived too late and arrested him, hoping to bring him back to Ofier to regain his honour after failing to cure the prince. But a storm wrecked the ship, and Geralt escaped, killing Aamad to save his own life.”

“Oh.” So, yet again, his life has been thrown into peril by enticing witcher contracts. Yennefer can’t wait to return to Corvo Bianco, where Geralt has all but given up this dangerous profession.

“When Aamad died, another sorceress took his place. She was called Radeyah –”

“Radeyah?” Yennefer interrupts.

“Oh, Yennefer, you know her?” Ameer looks surprised.

“Yes. And not under the best circumstances. Some years ago, I was searching hard for a special artefact. She accompanied me on that trip, and spent the majority of the time doing nothing to help with the search, taking special interest in the mage I was working with instead. When I finally found the blasted artefact, she attacked me and stole it.”

“That does sound like her.” Ameer notes, amused. “One day, though, she vanished for a long time. I heard she returned to Ofier, but fled to the deserts and never returned to the capital. I was away visiting my family at the time, so I do not know exactly what happened.” He sees Yennefer’s face, her façade of innocence, and frowns. “Yennefer, do you know something about this?”

“Oh, no. I’ve no notion of what happened.” One day, while she was on holiday in Kovir, a magic chest arrived on her doorstep, with a letter from Geralt. It simply stated: ‘a present for you’. Inside was Radeyah. Yennefer has no idea how exactly this came to be, or how Geralt knew Radeyah – or how she had obviously wronged him in some way – but they had a nice, long chat after that. Of course, Yennefer didn’t hurt her. Just gave her a scare, is all, then let her find her own, very long way back to Ofier. It seems the event was so embarrassing for Radeyah, she decided not to show her face again in Ofier’s capital.

“Whatever happened, I do not care much. She was very…manipulative, I think, and her illusory skills were sloppy. Unfortunately, the one who took her place was not much better. Aamad’s younger brother became the royal mage. So, I hear a different story about Geralt the Prince Killer, and I do not know this witcher, but I know Aamad and his family. They are all ruthless and ambitious, willing to do anything to keep his political power – even doing the most dishonourable things, all the while preaching about honour and obedience. His brother is even worse, and ever since Prince Sirvat died, he is being even more ruthless and stringent.” He says this darkly. “Paranoid. Brutal. Handing out harsh punishments to the slightest wrongdoing that he perceives. So out of the two stories, I think Geralt’s is more convincing. When I meet Geralt of Rivia, and he frees me from jarl Carrik, I am not angry. He was tricked.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.” Yennefer says truthfully. Ameer is a dear friend, an old ally, but he was not aware of Geralt’s and Yennefer’s relationship. If he had believed the lies about Geralt in Ofier, then he might have killed Geralt, or left him for dead when the poison set in among the Skellige moors.

“The only person I am angry with is the one who cursed the prince.” Ameer’s face darkens. “Prince Sirvat was kind and eager to rule as fairly as possible. He wanted to help his people, he wanted to make better relations with the other tribes. He was a generous and caring ruler. And someone cursed him so cruelly. So terribly. For what? I do not know. But if I ever find this Olgierd von Everec, I intend to find out. To know what made him inflict such a terrible curse on a kind man. To know why a man would be so cruel. And then, when I find out, I will kill him.” He closes his eyes. “For I am so, so tired of cruel people.”

\--

Night has fallen, and even though Yennefer is supposed to be watching the cave entrance, her mind is completely distracted.

The temperature has dropped considerably, and Yennefer has her cloak wrapped tightly around herself in an attempt to preserve heat. Around her, the trees creak and groan, and the wind howls at her ears painfully. She’s sitting in front of the log, leaning her back against it. Not exactly comfortable, but more secure than sitting on the log itself.

Behind her, Regis is asleep on the blanket. Ameer is asleep too, and has ensnared Regis in a tight grip, stealing as much of his warmth as possible. Regis doesn’t seem to mind either the cold or Ameer. He has his arm around the aguara, who rests his head on Regis’s shoulder. This will stop Ameer from freezing. They still have the small fire under the rocks, but they’ve kept it low, not wanting to give away their positions. Just as Regis said, no smoke filters from the flames, allowing them to remain undetected. But the flames are small, and Ameer still shivers in his sleep.

Yennefer tries to focus her attention back on the cave, but again, her mind begins to wander. The conversation with Ameer stands out starkly in her mind. His dark declaration is one matter, and though Yennefer is still relieved he hasn’t taken out his anger on Geralt, she isn’t sure what she thinks of his murder plan. She shouldn’t be surprised, though. Fox Mothers are known to be extremely vindictive, stopping at nothing to enact their revenge. Ameer may not be a true Fox Mother, but he’s always shared that vengeful streak.

After that conversation, he’d been quiet, subdued and sad. Maybe thinking of and talking about Ofier made him remember how much he misses his home.

But that’s not all. The story of what happened to Geralt has left her shocked. She knew his encounter with Olgierd von Everec had left to some unpleasant events, she could figure that out easily, but to learn he had inadvertently been involved in regicide…

Yennefer isn’t angry about the act itself. He was tricked. Had he realised the toad was a cursed prince, he would have tried to lift the curse himself. But why didn’t he tell her? Why did he fail to mention that a whole nation would take any opportunity to execute him for killing royalty?

Was he embarrassed? Was he worried she would be angry?

God, what is she thinking…Again, she’s acting so childishly…

But it bothers her. It really bothers her.

Geralt always hated it when she kept secrets from him. And she had dismissed his complaints, brushed them off as trivialities. Now, she truly understands why he hated it so much.

Yennefer heads a noise behind her. It’s Ameer.

His voice starts out quiet, but gets louder and louder. He’s speaking in Ofieri, whimpering and pleading to some unknown entity. He sounds scared.

“Ameer?” The noise wakes Regis. “Ameer, wake up.”

Suddenly, Ameer bolts upright. Gasping, eyes wide open, trembling like a leaf.

“Where –” He looks around himself wildly. “Where am I –”

Carefully, Regis sits up, placing a hand on Ameer’s arm. Ameer flinches, then leans against him. Hesitant, reluctant. But soon, the tension leaves his shoulders, and he allows himself to be comforted.

“Another nightmare?” Regis asks softly, smoothing his hand down Ameer’s back.

“Mm.” Ameer closes his eyes. “I…It was unpleasant.”

“It’s over now. You’re safe here.”

Ameer doesn’t move. Soon, he stops shaking, and his breathing steadies. Yennefer watches on awkwardly. She doesn’t want to intrude, but seeing her friend suffer still distresses her.

“…I did not mean to wake you up.”

“I don’t mind that at all.”

Ameer opens his eyes. Yennefer looks away too slowly. His gaze locks with her.

Damn it. Yennefer stares back down at the road. He saw her looking. Now what should she say? He clearly doesn’t want her prying, as much as that hurts her. But she can’t stay silent, either, when her friend is suffering so.

“…I think I would like to stay awake for a while.” She hears Ameer’s footsteps as he walks towards her, and then sits down next to her by the log. “I am not tired anymore.”

“I shall join you.” Regis sits next to him on the other side. “That sleep was very refreshing.”

Together, they watch the road beneath them. Ameer huddles closely to both of them, relishing in their warmth against the cold wind.

Yennefer wants desperately to ask about the nightmare. To prove once and for all that she isn’t the problem. That Ameer’s secrecy has nothing to do with Yennefer herself. That he’s just scared, and proud, and maybe even ashamed of whatever happened. Not that he doesn’t trust in Yennefer as a confidant. As a friend.

Because then, maybe Yennefer can finally cull those niggling thoughts in the back of her mind. Those thoughts that tell her Geralt getting hurt was, indirectly, her fault.

But she can’t. She can’t bring herself to ask. To interrogate him so bluntly. It would be insensitive to do so. Yennefer is not a patient woman; when faced with a problem, she simply works hard to overcome it, using whatever means necessary. But this isn’t a problem that can be fixed with a simple finger snap, no matter how frustrating that might be. This is a problem that will need time, time and more time.

She needs to be patient. And she needs to put aside her own pride, give Ameer the comfort that Regis – a stranger by comparison – has so readily supplied in his endless patience and kindness. 

Sighing, without taking her gaze from the road, her hand brushes against Ameer’s. Uncertain at first. But soon, more confident.

When he doesn’t move his hand away, she holds it. Not cooing over him, not fussing like a parent. He’s too proud for that. He’ll take that unabashed comfort from someone more detached, like Regis, but she and him have history, a friendship and mutual respect. He won’t want her to be overbearing. Not immediately, anyway. Maybe after some time. She knows, because she would be the same.

Her grip tightens. Her words almost fail her, struggling against her own pride and insecurities.

“…I’m glad you’re here, Ameer.” She says at last. “I’m glad I found you again. I just wish I’d found you sooner.”

For a moment, he’s silent. Entirely still. Only when his grip tightens on her hand does she know he’s accepted her message.

“I…” His own voice fails. “I…”

Yennefer says nothing. Neither does Regis. Allowing him time and courage to speak.

“…They were so cruel to me.” He stares down at the ground in front of him. “They knew I was powerless in dimeritium. And they loved that weakness. They were so cruel. And vicious. They took every opportunity to beat and humiliate me.” He bites his lip, and picks at the grass by his feet.

“…The chores I did were harmless enough. Wash swords, serve food and drink. But the beatings I received if I made any mistake…Even with my own healing, better than a human or an elf, my body would ache for days. They forced me to sing, to dance, take drugs, do whatever entertained them in that moment. Like I was some puppet for them to play with. I have never felt so humiliated. But I had no choice. I feared their punishments, their beatings. And I feared what would happen if they tired of me, or if they thought me too weak. I thought they might kill me, replace me with some other slave. So, even though I was scared and humiliated, I locked it away. I did whatever they asked, and learnt to do it perfectly. Even when they beat me for fun, I got back up and continued as if they did not. It is how I survived.”

He touches his chest, his face twisted with pain and distress. “But now…even though I learnt to hide it, now…now I feel it again. The pain, and the fear, and the humiliation. As if I was back there. And I do not understand. I do not want to feel that way. I do not want to feel that way ever again.” His eyes glisten, but no tears fall. His cheeks remain dry. Is that real, or an illusion?

Gently, Yennefer puts her arm around him, and wipes away tears she cannot see but knows are there. “This feeling now means you’re a survivor. Your body locked it away, and now is paying the emotional debt. You survived. This is proof.”

“It’s not a sign of weakness.” Regis places a hand on Ameer’s shoulder. “It feels terrible. But time will lessen the anguish, and make it easier to bear. Just know that it does not make you weak. And know that it does not make you alone.”

They remain that way for a while, soothing him quietly. At last, Ameer wipes away tears. “…I am glad. That I travel with you both. There are many cruel people in this world, but you are both kind. I am grateful for that, and I owe you much.”

“You owe us nothing.” Yennefer says firmly.

“I was saved from cruel men.” Ameer carries on regardless. “I will not let cruel men hurt either of you. If they do, they will face my wrath. I can promise that.”

Time drifts on, and Ameer is lulled back into sleep once more. He has returned to the warmth of the blankets and the fire, curled up to try and conserve heat as he sleeps. His fox-like ears, which are showing in this privacy, twitch in his dreams.

“…I’m glad he talked to you, finally.” Regis speaks up, his breath condensing in the cold. He has remained where he is, and he looks down onto the road beneath them.

“Why is that?” 

“The mind of an aguara is just as difficult for me to fathom as it will be for you. We may both be ‘monsters’, but we are still of different races. However, whether we are humans, vampires, elves or vulpesses, I can safely assume that the circumstances in which he found himself would most undoubtedly leave psychological scars on any individual.”

“Indeed.” His descriptions of his captivity didn’t surprise her. Yennefer has never enjoyed fox hunting, or sports where excitement is taken from the vicious pursuit of a fleeing and frightened animal. While some claim tradition or class as core to these sports, there are too many individuals who take strangely sadistic thrill from the activity, those who refuse to replace the live animal for simply a human runner leaving behind a deliberate trail to chase. Perhaps it is the feeling of control and dominance over another living being. And the men who kept Ameer captive, she can only assume they were the same. Men who delighted in being able to parade their power in whichever vicious way they liked. Especially over someone who, without the dimeritium shackles, would be able to kill them very easily.

“He hadn’t told me the details of his time in Skellige.” Regis continues. “But it would surely be unhealthy to keep such events hidden away in his mind. Therefore, I am glad he spoke of his experiences, even a little.”

“…I am, too. It’s a good job we let him come with us. He would have been terribly unhappy in Skellige, surrounded by those memories and with no one to speak to.”

“Yes, I can certainly agree with you there. And his mood has lifted considerably since we left that archipelago.”

Yennefer smiles. “Has he been teasing you at all? Playing tricks with his illusions?”

“He coerced me into eating insects.” Regis answers her, amusement in his voice. “They were only berries in the end, but it was very realistic.”

That does sound like him. “I’m assuming you’ve never eaten insects before?”

“No, no. Though Ameer insisted otherwise.”

“You’ve lived for four hundred years. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten other unusual things?”

“Hm…” He thinks about it. “As Geralt must have told you, I had quite a blood problem in my youth, and now abstain entirely from it.”

“He did mention that, yes.”

“Well…It’s rather embarrassing…One night I was particularly drunk, and mistook a comatose patient with Catriona plague for someone healthy, and, well…not dying.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes. Apparently, the lad miraculously pulled through and became known as ‘the whoreson who cheated death twice’ among his compatriots. For me, the whole scenario was incredibly unpleasant.”

“Could you really taste the difference in blood?” Yennefer asks curiously.

“Imagine you have been craving a glass of Toussaint’s finest wine, a vintage from 1234. It is only when you put the goblet to your lips and take a long sip that you realise someone has poured you horse vomit, if you’ll excuse my rather repulsive allegory.”

“I see. I can’t imagine the Catriona plague tasting pleasant.”

“No. In fact, it was so repulsive that I began to retch, alerting others in the household to my presence. Needless to say, a vampire in the middle of throwing up is a lot less frightening than a vampire drinking someone’s blood. And so, the villagers had the courage to chase me out with pitchforks.”

“Oh dear.”

Regis shakes his head. “Like I said, it’s rather embarrassing. I don’t suppose you have any similar stories?”

“I can’t say I have. If I am forced to eat something I know to be unpleasant, I use an illusory spell to change the appearance and the taste of the food into something I prefer. Ameer taught it to me, actually.” There isn’t a better teacher in illusions, after all.

“Goodness, what a useful spell.”

“It is quite taxing, though, so I only use it if I really need to.”

Regis gives her a sideways glance and smiles. “So, no tales of your own embarrassing youth?”

“None.”

“Really?”

She sighs, realising he will continue asking. He is an inquisitive individual, it seems. Though she knows how to handle such individuals, having been friends with the ever-curious Ameer. So she decides to give him a brief story, to satisfy him and prevent him from prying into much more private matters.

“Well, I suppose there was when I joined the academy.” She had been a horrible, frightened mess at first. And although she had excelled at magic, it had taken a long, long time to build her confidence. But when she eventually did, she became quite daring. She doesn’t tell him these details, though. “I had seen the teachers drinking fine wines and was quite curious to see what they tasted like. However, alcohol was rightly banned for the students, to stop it interfering with our studies. One day, a friend and I decided to sneak into our teacher’s quarters and steal a bottle ourselves. We were successful, and had a grand old time getting drunk on miniscule amounts. What we didn’t know is that our teacher was prepared for such an event and had put a dye into the wine, left it out as a decoy. So, next morning, she was easily able to identify the culprits as those who had blue tongues. It took a week to fade, too. It was very embarrassing.”

Regis smiles. “Blue tongues…I can’t imagine you with that, somehow. I’ll refrain from telling Ameer this story.”

“Yes, please.” 

Regis looks over at Ameer, who sleeps obliviously. There’s been a frown on his face as he dreams, but it’s slowly relaxing. “…Are you relieved?”

“About what?”

“Well, all this time, you thought he was in Ofier. It’s only by mere coincidence that you found him, that he got rescued. If you hadn’t been in Skellige, you might never have found him. Don't you feel relieved...And yet also scared? What if you had decided to meet up somewhere else with Ciri? Or what if Geralt had never found the contract?”

“I suppose ...When you say it like that. But he's here now That's all that matters isn't it?”

“Yes, yes, you're right. I…I suppose I'm just lamenting.”

“About what?” It's not as if he knew Ameer.

“Well…” He is silent for a long time. “You and witchers like Geralt are the only people – only humans – who can understand how I feel. You live such long lives, you see normal humans die all around you.” Regis stares down at the road. “I am the same. I see humans die all around me. So I became afraid. I knew Dandelion and Zoltan were still alive, but even when I became strong enough to travel, I decided not to seek them out.” He closes his eyes. “What if we hadn’t come here, hadn’t realised what had happened? We wouldn’t have known they were being accused of murder. And they would’ve been executed. All the while, I was off moping, while they had no idea I was even alive. I could have gone to meet them, spent at least an evening being jovial and chatting about trivialities over fine food and drink, and I didn’t. Like a bloody fool. Even now, we might fail in our task.”

For a moment, he says nothing, before sighing and shaking his head.

“I apologise. I don’t want to unload all my contemplations on you.”

“Don’t apologise. I…I can understand how you feel. And I’m certainly sorry you feel that way.”

“It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have been so foolish.”

“…Hindsight is a wonderful thing. It can also drive us to madness if we let it. You’ve learnt your mistake, haven’t you? All you can do now is ensure they don’t die. Make sure you can spend that evening with them, make up for lost time.”

“Hm.” A ghost of a smile appears on his lips. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You’re not the only one with regrets, anyway.” Why is she telling him this? They’ve known each other for barely a week. And yet, she has grown tired of hanging onto these feelings, automatically trying to bury them in the back of her mind. Perhaps Geralt has softened her. Truthfully, she has opened up to Geralt about far more than to anyone else in her life.

But Geralt isn’t here right now. She glances at the medallion. He can’t hear her, and he certainly can’t answer back.

She decides, fuck it. The thoughts have been unpleasant and relentless, and she’s been too stressed and preoccupied with solving this murder to fend them off effectively.

So when he asks, “what do you mean?” she answers.

“I keep on thinking. And I know, it’s silly, and doesn’t help us at all to think it. But…I just wish that Geralt had spoken to me.”

“Spoken to you?”

“Yes. We were meant to meet Ciri together, but…he got some idiotic ideas in his head, about Ciri not wanting to see him. So he went off, traipsing around Skellige, and got himself poisoned.”

“You're thinking, if he’d spoken to you, he might not have gotten himself poisoned?” Regis guesses.

“It sounds stupid, saying it out loud.” But there’s a lot she doesn’t say, even now. This was different to hiding some scheme, some plan. This was emotional, the type of thing most partners tell each other. And he didn’t. So she remains quiet about her fears as to why Geralt didn’t tell her. Ameer opening up to her has assuaged her fears somewhat. At least one friend trusts in her. But the fear is still there.

“Well, just like I said. If he hadn’t have gone wandering around Skellige, he wouldn’t have found Ameer.” Regis says simply. “The only one to blame for Geralt’s current state is jarl Carrik and Tye. After all, if Geralt had taken the contract, but the blade hadn’t been poisoned, we’d be sitting with a non-poisoned Geralt and a freed Ameer. The best out of all the options.” He glances at her. “There are countless endings, multitudes of ways the scenario could have played out. This is the one we got. Now, like you said, all we can do is put things right.”

She sighs, watching her clouded breath unfurl in front of her. “…I know.”

“Besides, you can’t hold yourself responsible for Geralt’s stoic and deliberately reserved attitude, my dear.” Regis smiles. “We both know how he likes to maintain some ill-defined masculine demeanour when it comes to his emotions, however erroneous and inane that definition of masculinity may be.”

Yennefer smiles at this. “There’s truth in your words. Although it may be hypocritical of me to think that way. I know I’m not exactly a shining pillar of openness, either.”

“Nor am I.” Regis looks back onto the road. “Although, I must admit, I feel better having spoken to you.”

There are still treacherous feelings lurking beneath the surface of her consciousness, fears she’d prefer to not pay credence to. And she is sure that Regis is the same. Nonetheless, she says, “I am, too.”

Suddenly, Regis’s eyes widen. He peers down into the road beneath them, then speaks quietly.

“Yennefer, someone has arrived.”

Quickly, Yennefer looks down with him, her eyes battling against the darkness. Someone really is walking on the road, and thankfully, they carry a torch. Whoever it is wears a long cape and hood, obscuring their face from her sight.

“What can you see?” She asks Regis, knowing his nocturnal vision to be far more superior than hers.

“…I think it’s a man.” He reports. “I don’t recognise him, though.”

Carefully, Yennefer watches as he walks towards the stone slab. Quickly, he takes something out from underneath his cloak. A small, metal contraption, cube-like in structure. She can’t quite see it from here. A magic sensor? The mysterious transmutator?

The hooded man presses the metal contraption against the stone slab. The structure begins to flash a bright green light, which spreads up across the stone slab in a luminescence wave. With a click, the slab suddenly begins to slide, opening up a gap for the man to walk through. Inside, Yennefer can see light.

“Kalkstein’s Dispatcher.” She breathes. How mercilessly simple – a device used to send signals to another contraption, usually another magical object. Extremely difficult to make, as Kalkstein was not one for simplicity, but the operator doesn’t need to have any magical abilities to use it. This one must be connected to a magically fuelled pulley, used to slide the slab instead of relying on human strength, or the lack thereof.

“Will you be able to open the slab, then?” Regis asks.

“I think so.” All she’ll need to do is send out a magic signal that mimics the Kalkstein’s Dispatcher, allowing the slab to open for them. If only she’d realised it would be that simple.

“Excellent. Shall we go, then?”

“Yes. I’ll wake Ameer; we’ll need his illusions to remain undetected.” At last, they can understand the truth behind Parviz’s murder, and find out where Tye went.

Time to end this nonsense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Kalkstein is an alchemist from the first witcher game. He's unfortunately killed off screen in witcher 3, but he goes out like an absolute legend - when he's burnt at the stake, he uses magic to make fiery dragons dance in the sky, and turn into letters spelling out 'Radovid sucks flaccid cock')


	14. Shared Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After that very long chapter, this is a slightly shorter one, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

_“Kaer Morhen is an inaccessible mountain stronghold which has been the headquarters of the witchers' guild for centuries. Its name derives from its original elven appellation — Caer a'Muirehen, meaning Old Sea Fortress. The castle's times of glory have passed, its battlements and moat have deteriorated, a cold wind blows through its spacious halls. Only a handful of witchers live here now, but in past times droves of young boys underwent gruesome training along the infamous "Gauntlet" near Kaer Morhen.” – Dandelion on Kaer Morhen_

Geralt is awake.

He isn’t sure where he is. All he can figure out is that he’s not in his body anymore.

It was fleeting at first, his bouts of consciousness. He would wake up, see glimpses of Skellige, before slipping back into a dreamless sleep. Occasionally, he’d see an Ofieri elf, a vulpess, standing in the darkness. He’d try to call to Ameer, speak to him, but the elf couldn’t hear him. And then Geralt would grow tired, drift back into sleep.

He can’t feel things. He can’t feel the breeze, the rain, the cold. And he can’t feel his body, can’t feel the agonising pain that had coursed through his poisoned flesh. So, his body must not be there anymore. Where is it? Honestly, Geralt isn’t sure if he wants to know. Maybe the answer would freak him out too much.

But he’s still _him._ The longer this stranger sensation goes on for, the more mastery he gains over his thoughts. Like a bear waking up from hibernation, coming slowly to its senses. Whenever he’s awake, he can think, and with time those thoughts become more coherent. He still has sentience, so that’s a relief.

Soon, though, he realises it’s not just him in this strange state. Something else – someone else – is sharing his mind. Or at least, he thinks so. Because he keeps on feeling a sadness that doesn’t belong to him, fears and visions that make no sense to him. Is it Ameer, who occasionally appears in his dreams?

One night, he managed to approach Ameer. Any uncertainties as to whether he was dreaming or not were quashed, because he stood in the grounds of empty Kaer Morhen. Definitely a dream. And when he looked down, he could see his hands moving on will, even though normally he can't feel anything. The pain was still gone, too. An added bonus.

Then, he was awake again, in a bedroom he didn’t recognise. And he could see Yen and Regis.

He was so happy to see them. His true love Yen, and his closest friend Regis– he’d had no idea Regis had even gotten his raven-delivered message all the way in Nilfgaard. Yen was wearing her lingerie, for some reason. Not that he’d complain. He enjoyed the view, although it was temporarily taken from him by something large and blurred.

But…they were smiling. They were happy. Why? What were they smiling at? Because they weren’t smiling at his poisoned body, Geralt is certain of that.

Geralt had tried to call out, ask them what was going on, but he had no voice. He could only think the words he wished to say. Even if he could, it would make no difference, since he couldn’t hear either Yen or Regis. He saw their lips moving, but not a single word out of their mouth was audible to Geralt. Damn it.

Quickly, he became tired, and drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

Now, he wakes up. First comes the groggy confusion. He stares out without comprehending what he’s seeing, without caring. Only a vague puzzlement about where he is occupies his thoughts.

Then clarity returns. Yes, he’s…in this strange state. And he’s looking out in the dark. There are trees, a small campfire. Someone is next to him. Regis?

Then he feels scared, but that fear isn’t his own. His view shifts, and he sees Regis sit up and move close. Then he can’t see anymore, only the close up view of clothes.

When the view changes again, Geralt can only see more trees and the tops of cliffs. Damn it! He can’t turn his gaze, can’t look from side to side, only forwards. He wants to see Yen, see Regis, but is stuck with the trees instead.

Soon, though, he falls back into sleep.

And this time, he isn’t in Kaer Morhen.

The hall of Kaer Sliabh is spacious and empty, in comparison to the great feast that took place when Geralt visited. No fire on the rugs, no blood on the floors, no dead bodies of jarls and warriors bleeding out onto the stone. A few servants walk back and forth, clearing up spilt food and mead from what must have been a previous night of festivities. Outside the window, Geralt sees the weak sun of Skellige shining onto the moorlands, with snow capped mountains in the background. But the entire scene has a strange filter. As if Geralt is looking through tinted glass.

But he can see himself. Geralt looks down, sees his hands, boots, and armour, the same he wore the fateful night has was poisoned. With that comes relief. The feeling of floating, being able to think but not being in his body, is frightening.

And he can hear, too. He can hear the scraping of plates and clinking of goblets being gathered. The slow footsteps against the tiled floor. The quiet chatter of servants.

What draws his attention, though, is the singing.

He looks over to the throne in the middle of the hall. Jarl Carrik lounges in it, watching as two men butcher and skin a boar carcass on the table. What jarl would want to see that in his throne room? A savage and unpleasant one. 

Sitting down by his feet is Ameer. He’s back in those clothes – or lack thereof – and his hands are shackled loosely with dimeritium again. There are dark bags under his eyes, one of which is bruised. His body is gaunt, thin. He’s cleaning jarl Carrik’s boots, which are clogged with mud, with a cloth and bucket of water and polish. And he’s singing.

“Is úar geimred, at-racht gáeth…éirgid dam díscir dergbáeth…nocha te in-nocht in slíab slán, gé beith dam dían ac dordán.” His voice is sweet as he sings in Elder Speech, but also strained. Maybe he’s been singing for a while. “Ní thabair a tháeb re lár, dam Sléibe Cairn na comdál…ní luga at-chluin céol cúaine, dam Cinn Echtge innúaire.

Jarl Carrik shouts to the two carvers. “Careful, now, I don’t want the head ruined. A beast like that should surely be up on my wall.

“Mise Caílte, is Díarmait donn, ocus Oscar áith étrom, ro choistmis re céol cúaine deired aidche adúaire…Is maith chotlas in dam donn fuil is a chnes re Coronn, mar do beth fa Thuinn Túaige deired aidche innúaire…”

Another servant enters the hall, carrying a basket of fish. He places the basket on the floor and bows low to the jarl.

“Jarl Carrik, a shipment of cod and herring has arrived from the coast. We bought a sample of it, to see if you’d like it.”

“Bring it here.”

The servant brings the basket forwards, not even daring to look at the singing Ameer. Out of fear, or out of contempt, Geralt isn’t sure. But the man certainly feels no pity towards Ameer. Not one drop of sympathy.

“Hm…This’ll do. Order some more to be brought to the castle. Fox face.” Carrik sharply commands the vulpess.

Ameer looks up, finally stopping in his song.

“Bring this fish to the smoking room.”

Ameer nods, bows deeply, and then picks up the basket. He walks from the hall, and as soon as he does, all the activities in the hall freeze. Servants stop wiping tables, stop sweeping floors, and the jarl’s voice ceases, his mouth still half open as he shouts to the carvers.

Ah. Not just a dream, a memory. Ameer isn’t here anymore, he left the room, so he has no idea what went on in his absence.

Geralt hesitates for a moment. He’s been inside a person’s memories before, and he was lucky to leave alive. Iris von Everec’s painted world had been fraught with danger, manifestations of her fears coupled with her most upsetting memories.

But this feels different. His honed instincts don’t sense any danger, and he spies no shadowy apparitions in the form of giant spiders or mangled, mutilated husbands lurking nearby.

So Geralt follows Ameer, down corridors filled with those stuffed animal heads, past servants who come to life when he passes. Some of them mutter vile words and throw scornful looks towards Ameer, who ignores them blankly.

At last, he reaches a small room towards the back of the castle. In the centre, Geralt spots a fire, contained carefully in a stone well. And from wall to wall, wooden rails have been placed across the room. Dried fish hang by the tail in their dozens. Ah, fish smoking. A common practice in Skellige. The smoking is meant to kill parasites, and keep the meat from rotting.

Silently, Ameer gets to work. Using a rope pulley, he lowers down one of the empty rails. In the corner is a bucket filled with water, which he washes his hands with. Then, one by one, he hooks the fish tails to the rail, working with stone-faced efficiency.

“…Ameer?” Geralt calls out hesitantly. But Ameer either ignores him, or just can’t hear him. Well, in Iris von Everec’s painted world, he didn’t actually interact with her memories themselves. It was her spirit he conversed with, after having trawled through her depressing past and battling her worst fears. Maybe something similar is happening here.

However, Ameer isn’t alone for long.

The door opens, and three Skelligan men enter the room. All wearing the jarl’s purple tartan colours.

“Well, well. What’re you doing in here?” Their leader asks, a man with a brown beard and a scar across his nose.

“I am smoking the fish.” Ameer answers quietly.

“You have a lovely singing voice, Fox Face.” The man smiles unpleasantly. “How 'bout you sing for us?”

Gingerly, Ameer touches his strained throat. He’s already been singing for a while. He probably doesn’t want to sing again.

“I must smoke the fish.” He repeats nervously.

“This wasn’t a request.”

Ameer swallows. Averting his gaze, he begins to sing again.

“…I-Is úar g-geimred, at-racht gáeth…éirgid d-dam díscir dergbáeth…n-nocha te in-nocht in slíab slán, gé beith dam-dam dían ac-ac dordán” His voice is shaking. Each note is still perfect in pitch, beautifully sweet, but his fear is entirely audible. No doubt he can sense the malevolence about these men.

“N-Ní thabair a tháeb re lár, d-dam Sléibe Cairn na c-comdál…ní luga at-chluin céol cúaine, dam Cinn-Cinn Echtge innúaire…” Suddenly, he begins to cough. Geralt realises what has happened. These smoke rooms always have a hole in the roof, to allow the smoke to billow upwards, catching all the fish in the process. But leave a door or window open, and the smoke finds another route to escape, spreading the entire room with smoke. And these idiots have left the door open.

“…M-Mise Caílte…” Ameer coughs again. The fish he was trying to hook onto the rail slips from his fingers, onto the floor.

The bearded man grabs his forearm, twisting it painfully above his head. Ameer cries out in pain.

“You’re a shitty little servant, aren’t you?” No, he was just waiting for something like this to happen. “Don’t know why jarl Carrik keeps you around.”

“P-Please.” Ameer coughs. “Please. I am sorry. I –”

“What should we do, boys?” The man calls to his companions. “How should we teach him a lesson?”

“Put his hand into the fire.” One suggests. “See if these fox elves burn like normal elves.”

“No, no, please –” Ameer drags his feet as the bearded man grabs his wrist and hauls him over to the fire. With both hands, he grabs Ameer’s forearm and tries to force his right hand towards the flames.

“No! Let me go!” Ameer pushes back, his foot on the stone well to give him some leverage. His hand is getting dangerously close. His eyes are wide, panicked. And Geralt can feel his fear. His desperation to get his hand away, his dread at the inevitable pain. Geralt feels that fear as if it's his own.

In a split second, Ameer turns his face towards the man’s head. Geralt doesn’t quite see it happen, but he doesn’t need to.

“Ah!” The man instantly lets go of Ameer, clutching the side of his face. Ameer falls to the floor. “The fucker bit me! He bit me on the ear!”

Ameer hurries to his feet, but the two other men block his path to the door. One draws back his fist and tries to punch, but Ameer dodges.

His efforts are in vain, though. The bearded man comes from behind and strikes him across the back of the head. Crying out in pain, Ameer falls to the floor again. He receives a kick to the ribs, again, and again. Punches all across his body. Instinctively, he tries to curl up, to minimise the damage.

It doesn’t take long for Geralt to decide he wants to kill these men. They’re only memories, but he’s seen enough scenes like this: vicious people taking out their anger and blood-thirst on innocent people, especially those seen as ‘others’ or those who are helpless and unable to fight back. Ameer fits both of those categories.

He only hesitates for a moment. If this world is like Iris von Everec’s world, he might aggravate the memories into attacking him. And if this world is anything like Iris von Everec’s world, that’s very dangerous indeed.

But that hesitation is only for a second. Hearing Ameer’s cries of pain – sickeningly reminiscent of the sounds of the slaughtered non-humans in the Rivian pogrom that cost him and Yen their lives – is enough to spur him into action.

He reaches for his sword – and grasps thin air. Does he not have them? He’s wearing his clothes, his armour, but the weapons must not have been carried over into this strange dream world. Damn it.

But Geralt has had enough.

“Get away from him.” He pushes the bearded man, hard.

The bearded man goes rigid, and falls to the floor. As soon as he makes impact with the stones, he shatters. There’s no blood or gore. He just…smashes into tiny pieces, like glass.

Around him, his other two Skelligan warriors fall to pieces, too. Ameer, slowly uncurling from his defensive position, stares at the pieces in bewilderment, then finally lays his eyes on Geralt.

Geralt holds out his hand, to help Ameer to his feet, but Ameer automatically flinches, covering his face with his arms.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Does Ameer know who he is? This memory happened before they met, after all.

When Geralt doesn’t hurt him, Ameer lowers his arms. He stares long and hard at Geralt, confused at the lack of violence.

Soon, the realisation hits him. And the scared, beaten aguara in front of him, with his nose bloodied and body bruised, his eyes wide and fearful, his clothes scarce, shatters. Just like the three Skelligan men, but not quite as violently. Instead, his form crumbles into glittering shards, as fine as dust, that melt away as soon as they hit the floor.

A different Ameer takes the place of the previous one. This Ameer is warmly clothed with a blue and red blouse, not dissimilar to the kind that Dandelion wears – less fancy though, with delicate clasps down the front. He wears a black cloak adorned with raven feathers, fur rimmed boots, and a knife at his belt. There are no shackles on his wrist. His face is entirely unharmed, and the fear he felt – the fear Geralt felt, too – has lessened considerably. Still there, just a lot more…distant than before.

And around his neck is a wolf medallion.

Geralt doesn’t remember him wearing any of this, but he knows what this means. He’s managed to break through the memory, reach Ameer’s true consciousness.

So he holds out his hand again. "Come on. Let’s leave this place.”

Ameer looks around the room in confusion, then back at Geralt’s hand. Quickly, he takes it, and Geralt pulls him to his feet.

Together, they leave the smoking room, the throne room, the hallways. The filter of coloured glass has only gotten worse, and what used to be animal heads, tables and candles are now only vague blurs.

Soon, they reach the main door of Kaer Sliabh. Geralt steps through, and finds himself in a long stone corridor. There’s a light at the end. He walks towards it, and sees not the moors and snowy mountains of Skellige, but two distinct paths. One leads into desert mountains, scrubland and dried out brushes with brightly coloured flowers. At the end of the path, he can see a deep green swirling light. For some reason, Geralt averts his gaze quickly from that path. It feels…wild? No, not wild…incomprehensible. That’s it. An ancient mind he can’t understand, not truly, not intimately. That’s the deep, inner complexities of Ameer’s consciousness, he realises. Not just a scattered memory. Instinctively, he knows it’s a place he wouldn’t be welcome, a place even more dangerous than Iris von Everec’s painted world. And the mind of an aguara would be completely beyond him. The vast knowledge might even destroy him.

The second path is far more reassuring. He can see boundless pine forests, steep hills of vibrant green, and mountains cutting through the sky. The light at the end of the path is a pale, glowing yellow. A place he called home for a long time. A place that once brought joy and security, and still does, but now also brings grief.

That’s his mind. He’s sure of it.

Geralt turns to Ameer, and points down the path. “I’m going this way.” He says slowly. “I can’t go down the other path. So I’m going this way. I don’t know if you’ll be able to join me or not.”

Ameer frowns, tilting his head as Geralt speaks. Geralt realises why he looks confused when the aguara opens his own mouth to speak – and Geralt hears nothing.

“Damn it.” He points to himself, then down his path. That should be simple enough to understand.

As he begins walking, he looks over his shoulder. Ameer is following him curiously. Well, as long as he’s not going to implode when he walks into Geralt’s mind, it’ll be fine. Maybe, since he’s only a mutated human without the powerful ability of illusions, Ameer will be able to enter without any dire consequences.

Soon, they pass through the yellow light. And soon, Geralt finds himself walking onto a balcony in Kaer Morhen.

Smiling, he leans on the stone wall, looking out across the distant lakes, bordered by pines and mountains. He sees the courtyards overgrowing with weeds, the rubble and wooden scaffolding, the stone watch towers and long walls. Home.

He breathes in deeply, feeling a breeze run through his hair. Then he turns to Ameer. “This is where I grew up.” He knows Ameer won’t hear it, but he says it anyway.

Cautiously, Ameer walks to the edge of the balcony. He looks out across the stone walls, listens to the sound of the wind rushing through the trees. A small smile appears on his face, tension from the nightmarish memory washing away.

They stand in silence for a few minutes, basking in the sun and feeling the breeze on their faces. It’s…relaxing. Geralt doesn’t know what’s happening, but this is a nice moment of respite.

At last, he turns to Ameer, and taps him on the shoulder to get his attention. He’s realised now that whenever he’s awake, and can see out into the real world, he never sees Ameer. There’s a chance that Ameer isn’t travelling with Yen and Regis, but then again, Geralt doubts he would have stayed in Skellige after what happened.

That, the fact they’re sharing minds, sharing fears, and the fact Ameer has a wolf medallion around his neck, makes Geralt suspicious.

“Why do you have that?” He points deliberately at the medallion.

Ameer bites his lip, thinking hard. He points to the medallion, then points at Geralt, then back at the medallion.

“…That’s mine?” Geralt points to himself.

Ameer tries to say something. He points at Geralt, waving his hand around Geralt’s figure, gesturing to all of him. Then he picks up the medallion, and points emphatically at it with his index finger.

“It’s mine? No, that’s obvious, it must be something more than that…” He frowns when the realisation hits him. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re not saying I’m in that thing, are you?”

Again, Ameer points to the medallion, then at Geralt.

“Well, shit…” Geralt begins to pace. He can’t be entirely sure, since Ameer can’t give him a clear, definitive answer. But the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense.

“When I’m awake, I can’t feel my body or anything around me.” He thinks aloud. “I can't hear anything. I can’t even turn my gaze. I can only look in one direction.”

Ameer sits on the wall, watching Geralt pace back and forth, despite the drop behind him. He’s entirely confident in this world. Even if he fell, he probably can’t die in here.

“And the level I’m at…” He looks at Ameer. The medallion is hanging on his chest, below the sternal notch. “It’s as if I’m at your chest, looking out. You performed magic, didn’t you? To put me in that thing.”

Of course, Ameer doesn’t answer, having no idea what Geralt just said.

Geralt continues pacing. “So that means I was right. I’m not in my body anymore. So…you couldn’t cure me. Or something went wrong, and you had to place me inside that thing.”

Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. The situation is far worse than he could’ve imagined. Why did he delay seeing Ciri? Why didn’t he just talk to Yen about it? He’s such an idiot. Now, he’s poisoned, stuck in a medallion, already missing them both so much. All for the sake of his foolish pride and doubts.

And he can’t even talk to Ameer. Damn it. They need to find a way of communicating.

Geralt stops, and thinks hard. First, he wants to know where they are. They’re not in Skellige anymore, that’s for certain. So, he faces Ameer and starts waving his hands around in big circles, gesturing to the world around them. Then he points at Ameer. Where are you?

Ameer tilts his head, trying not to smile at how stupid Geralt must look. This isn’t working.

Geralt tries again. This time, he puts his hand over his brow, and moves his head from side to side, like a sailor searching the horizon. Then he points at Ameer again.

Ameer frowns, and then his eyes widen in realisation. Ok. He’s got the message.

This time, it’s Geralt’s turn to wait as Ameer thinks of how to relay this message. After a moment, Ameer holds up one finger. He grasps thin air with one hand, and then begins plucking his fingers with the other. A musical instrument.

“A lute? Wait…Priscilla? Dandelion?...You’re in Novigrad?” Geralt realises. He nods to show he understands.

But Ameer isn’t finished. He holds two fingers up, then jumps down from the stone wall. He turns around, his back to Geralt, and begins writing on thin air with an imaginary pen.

“What…you’re writing something…An author?”

Ameer looks over his shoulder, pointing at some invisible spectator. He speaks inaudibly and points at the board, as if…teaching.

“Oxenfurt.” He’s trying to mime the academy. He touches Ameer on the shoulder, nodding again to show he understands. “So, you must have landed in Novigrad, and met either Dandelion or Priscilla…and now you’re in Oxenfurt.” At least he’ll know where he is the next time he sees his surroundings.

The conversation – if this even classes as a conversation – isn’t over yet. There’s still something Ameer wants to say. He points to himself, then mimics the same action of searching as Geralt did. Then he walks over and pretends to stab Geralt, moving his hand from the wound up and down his body. The spread of the poison. 'We’re searching for who poisoned you', that's what he's trying to say. Well, no, not technically. Jarl Carrik poisoned Geralt, and he’s dead. But that former jarl didn’t seem like the brightest man. There’s no way he’d be able to concoct a poison potent enough to overcome a witcher's metabolism. That means he had to get it from somewhere else – that must be who Yen, Regis and Ameer are searching for.

But do they _know_?

From Ameer’s vague actions alone, Geralt isn’t sure. And there isn’t any way to ask, either. He can only hope they do know, to prepare themselves for the danger of what lies ahead of them. But if he were to guess, he’d bet they have no idea. How can he warn them? How can he communicate to Ameer about the terrible peril they’re going to put themselves in? Geralt doesn’t know how he’d convey the message. He doesn’t exactly have a paper and quill on him, and it’s far too complicated to mime.

Suddenly, Ameer begins to change. His form begins to fade. Shit, is he waking up?

Geralt grabs Ameer by the shoulder, his grip just about taking hold. Ameer's body is becoming more and more translucent.

“Be careful out there.” Geralt says urgently. Even if Ameer can’t hear him, he hopes his tone and meaning gets through to him. “Look after yourself. Take care of Yen and Regis, too.” They’re both tough, but somehow, he can sense their vulnerability. Maybe Ameer has noticed, too, and is sharing his concern with Geralt.

Ameer clearly doesn’t understand what Geralt is trying to say. But he nods solemnly anyway.

Then he vanishes, fading away into nothing. And Geralt is left alone in the mountainous ruins of Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Ameer is singing is an old Irish poem called 'Description of Winter and Memory of the Past'
> 
> Also, I worked at a re-enactment centre a while back with houses that had real fires, and let me tell you, it was SO annoying whenever someone left a window or a door open because the smoke would fill up the room and make you cough like crazy lol


	15. Crystal Clear

_“Elven ruins bear mute witness to the rise, triumph and decline of the Aen Seidhe. Few of their buildings have survived in good condition, for as the elves fled the human onslaught they destroyed most of their handiwork, not wanting to see it fall into the hands of the invaders.” – Villentretenmerth in The World and Its Inhabitants._

“Ameer, wake up.”

Yennefer gently shakes her friend awake. He rubs his eyes blearily, slowly sitting up.

“What…” He looks around, disorientated, touching the medallion gently. “What are we…”

“We saw someone go inside.” She tells him. “We need to follow them in.”

Immediately, he becomes alert. “Who was it?”

“We don’t know. But I can get us in.”

“When that stone slab opens, will you be able to cast an illusion, so any guards inside don’t notice it?” Regis asks.

“Yes, I will. Though we must be as quiet as possible. That will make it easier.” Ameer gets to his feet, dusting off his clothes.

Yennefer peers down at the road again. She can’t see anyone else, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be undisturbed in their task. “One of you should go first, and the other go last to keep watch. I’ll struggle to see in the dark, and I don’t want to risk lighting a torch or casting a spell.”

“Good idea.” Regis agrees. “I’ll keep watch in the back. If anyone comes close, I’ll simply turn to mist.”

“And I will hide myself and Yennefer with illusion.” Ameer rubs his hands together. “I suppose it will be cold in the ruins, but let us get this over with.”

Together, they leave the safety of the grove, and being travelling back down through trees and bushes until they reach the base of the cliff. Then, Ameer in the front, Yennefer following him, and Regis following behind, they climb through even more undergrowth until at last they find the road. Regis’s raven flies over head, occasionally swooping down and landing on Regis’s shoulder to report back to him. As for Yennefer herself, she hangs onto Ameer’s arm, allowing him to guide her through the impenetrably dark forest that blocks out the moon and stars above them. He warns her of logs to step over, roots that might trip her up, patches of mud to avoid, and thankfully she makes it through the forest without falling.

“See anyone?” Yennefer asks as they walk along the road, cliffs towering on either side of them.

“No, not yet.” Regis calls back softly. Good. She wants to be able to concentrate, not be worrying about unpleasant guests.

Only a few metres from the stone slab blocking the cave entrance, Yennefer instantly senses the magic. Not from a sorceress, but from the magical contraption. Kalkstein’s dispatchers are rare items – perhaps these drug dealers got one from Parviz, being a black-market dealer.

Yennefer closes her eyes, and presses her palms against the smooth slab. Yes, she can feel the left over magic trace from the Kalkstein’s dispatcher, too. That should make this easier.

Pulling from the magic in the air around her, allowing it to course down her arms and into her outstretched fingers, she discharges the energy from her finger tips. It sparks, bright green, and then spreads out in a wave across the stone slab. She concentrates, forcing the magic to mould into the shape of the magic trace left behind by the Kalkstein’s dispatcher. A simple signal to send to whatever contraption is on the other side.

“Quickly, Ameer. Now.” She whispers.

Ameer steps forwards, watching with intense concentration as the slab grinds open. It’s much noisier than she thought it would be. She hopes Ameer will be able to hide the noise.

Slowly, the stone slab slides to the left, revealing a gap in the cave entrance. Ameer grabs her arm and they run through when the gap is large enough. As soon as her hand leaves the stone slab, though, it begins to slide back. She and Ameer just manage to squeeze through, her cloak almost getting caught as the slab closes.

With a loud slam, the two stones thud together. The outside view is entirely robbed of Yennefer’s sight.

But it’s not dark in here. Torches line the walls of the cave. And by the entrance, two rough-looking men lean against the wall, each armed with swords and daggers.

Neither man stirs. Neither reacts to the sliding stone, neither reacts to the intruders in front of them. Ameer’s illusion has worked.

Quickly, Yennefer looks around herself. Where’s Regis? Did he manage to get through the gap? It was so small by the end, did he get trapped outside? Or worse, trapped between the two rocks?

But then she sees black mist swirling at her feet. She sighs in relief. He managed to get through. No doubt if he didn’t have that trick up his sleeve, he wouldn’t have been successful.

Silently, Yennefer and Ameer continue walking forwards, treading as quietly as they can, the black mist seeping along behind them. The ground is sloped and uneven; they’re going down, underground. The walls, though crumbling and covered in dirt-clogged roots, are illuminated with torches.

Only when they’re a good distance from the entrance, and have passed no guards, does the black mist rematerialize into Regis’s form.

“They didn’t hear us.” He whispers. “So, you can cancel out noise?”

“Yes, I can. It is a little harder for me, but most aguaras can do it with ease.” Ameer whispers back. “And even then, to hide things from vision and sound is far harder than conjuring something. For humans, anyway. It is easier for animals and monsters.”

“Why is it more difficult making things disappear?” Regis asks.

“Hm, how should I explain this…It is easier to paint a black mark onto an art piece than it is to paint over the black mark, make it fade into the background. That is the same as illusions. There is much we must take into consideration when making something disappear, so many details in the background to mimic perfectly. Besides,” his face darkens, “those dimeritium shackles…they have had a longer effect on me than I predicted. I am still recovering from their effects, and I am still not as good as I was before. So I must focus, and…” He trails off, turning his head to look down the cavernous hallways. Frowning, he tilts his head from side to side, in that fox-like way Yennefer would always tease him about.

“What is it?” She asks.

“Do you hear that?” He whispers.

Though Yennefer shakes her head, she sees that Regis looks equally as perplexed as Ameer. Like him, he’s staring off into the distance at whatever noise it is that Yennefer can’t hear.

“I hear it as well.” Regis whispers.

“I don’t hear anything.” Whatever it is, the noise must be at a high frequency – too high for Yennefer to hear, but still audible to their attuned senses. “Describe it.”

“It…I have not heard something like this before. I am not sure what it is…” Ameer frowns again. “Oh. It has stopped.”

“How strange.” Regis looks puzzled. “I don’t know what that is, either.”

Yennefer glances down the corridors. “You’ll have to figure it out later. We should go, before someone runs into us.”

“I shall remain as black mist.” Regis decides, speaking softly. “It should be easier hiding two individuals instead of three with your illusions. Rest assured, I’ll still be able to see what’s going on, even in this particular form. Should anything happen, I’ll be quick to assist.”

With that, he melts back into mist. And so, they continue their silent walk, listening to every drop of water, every rustle of insects, any sound that might be confused with a drug dealer’s footsteps.

-

The further down they walk into the caves, following twists and turns, the more their surroundings change from craggy cave to ruinous architecture. What was once gloriously carved stone and polished tiles are now dirty rubble with vague patterns, but Yennefer has seen enough elven ruins in her life to instantly recognise the prowess of Aen Seidhe temples and palaces. What this place might have looked like in its prime…the greed of men means they’ll never know.

But that’s not the only thing that changes as they walk. Yennefer had expected the air to be cold in the ruins – and it had, at first. But the further down they walk, the warmer the air becomes. If Adela is to be believed, then the drugs being made here, the equipment necessary, could be contributing to the warm air. Still, the extent of the temperature change surprises her.

Soon, they come across a steep drop. Yennefer can spy a ladder heading down, with torches lining the walls. A metre or so above them is another stone ledge, one that isn’t well lit – meaning it isn’t widely used.

Regis rematerializes to peer down the steep drop. “I hear voices and footsteps. We should avoid this path.”

Ameer looks up at the stone ledge above them. “This route looks sturdy. Shall we climb –”

He suddenly jumps, gasping in fright. Regis does the same, looking startled. They stand closely together, staring down the steep drop.

“What’s wrong?”

Neither answer, staring down the path in discomfort. Regis grits his teeth, his fingers digging into his palms; Ameer’s hands hover over his ears, wincing.

Just as suddenly, they relax. Whatever noise is tormenting them must stop.

Regis rubs his ears. “I’m sorry. It’s just…that noise.”

“It made me startled.” Ameer peers down the path. “What is causing it?”

“Never mind.” Regis shakes his head. “Those voices are getting closer.”

“Regis, see how far the path above us goes. It doesn’t look well frequented.” She whispers.

Regis obliges, turning into black mist and drifts up to the ledge, disappearing down the corridor. She worries about the voices getting closer, even with Ameer’s illusion – what if they have magic sensors similar to Geralt’s medallion? But then Regis’s corporal form appears, kneeling on the edge of the stone ledge.

“It goes on for a while.” He calls down quietly. “And the stone is thin enough to hear beneath us.”

“Perfect. Ameer, can you get up and then help pull me up?”

He nods, and reaches for the ledge. With a small jump he’s able to grab the edge and, with Regis’s help, pulls himself up. Then he turns, holding out his hands for Yennefer.

Unfortunately, she has to jump a little higher, and it takes a few attempts. Most undignified, but at least there’s no one else around to see except for them. At last, Ameer is able to grab her wrist. Again, his hidden strength takes her by surprise; he pulls her up with no assistance needed from Regis.

Just in time. Beneath them, she spies two people, a man and a woman, climbing up from the ladder onto the stone beneath them.

“Boss didn’t look happy, did he?” The man remarks.

“Course he didn’t. Entire operation’s gonna go to shit just ‘cause of some pretentious snobs in the city.” The woman responds as they walk down the corridor. “And yet, you just had to go and piss him off, get us assigned door duty.”

“I didn’t think he’d be in that bad of a mood!” The man protests.

“That’s even worse, you idiot! How could you not realise?”

Their squabbling continues until they’re too far away for Yennefer to hear. “I think we’re getting close.”

“Hopefully, we should remain undisturbed up here.” Regis whispers, still in his human form. “Let us continue on. Though, I must admit I’m rather curious about that conversation. I wonder what exactly has gone wrong in this little enterprise?”

“Perhaps we’ll find out.” Yennefer summons a light spell, since there are no torches up here, and they’re not likely to be spotted. “Pretentious snobs in the city…perhaps they mean the Academy protests.”

“Why do you think that?” Ameer asks as they walk.

“The city is most likely to be Oxenfurt. And ‘pretentious snobs’…I’ve heard those words, and a few select others, used to describe both the students and staff at Oxenfurt Academy.”

“Hm. Harsh words, though perhaps with a sliver of truth to them.” Regis muses. “Though it is a shame that the simple desire to learn is often devalued in such a way."

Up on the ledge, the noises seem more distant and muffled, but become louder and more numerous the more they walk. Since there are no torches here, Yennefer casts a light spell so she doesn’t trip in the dark. She realises the air is getting warmer as they traverse through the cave. They’re certainly getting closer to whatever operation is going on here.

“…Boss says we need to start clearing out…”

“…When are we making the move?...”

“…No later than midnight tomorrow…”

“…Gonna be one hell of a move…”

They’re going to move? So, this is their last chance to get answers about Parviz’s murder.

Soon, their path is blocked by rubble. The remains of a pillar piled high with stone and debris stops them in their path.

“Damn.” Yennefer peers up at the rubble. “I think I can see an opening up there. Regis, can you check to see if we could climb in?”

“Of course.” Regis bows, and then turns into mist. The black shroud hovers in the air, climbing up the fallen rocks until it reaches the gap, passing through the other side. He rematerializes, leaning through the gap.

“It’s big enough to climb through, I think.” He calls down.

“Good.” Yennefer sighs. She isn’t enjoying all this climbing. “Ameer, you go first again, and pull me up.”

Carefully, Ameer begins to climb, testing the security of each foothold with the tip of his toes before putting his full weight on. Yennefer holds her breath as she watches. One stumble, and he could fall. What if he lands awkwardly? What if the medallion breaks? No, surely not. That medallion has survived more than a few tumbles on the Path. And Ameer grew up at the base of the Ofieri mountains. He’s a good climber. And he’s almost at the top now. Regis holds out his hand to help pull him up.

Until that strange noise Yennefer can’t hear sounds again.

Ameer jumps compulsorily. At his sudden movement, a rock gives way under his hand, breaking off and falling to the ground. He loses balance, and his foot slips from its foothold.

“Careful!” She shouts out involuntarily. Ameer grasps onto the rock, but he’s going to fall –

Regis grabs his wrist, steadying him. Yennefer breathes out in relief as Ameer is able to regain his balance and grab another scaffold on the rock.

“Thank you.” He whispers as Regis helps to pull him up the rest of the distance.

“Not at all. Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I am fine.” He shakes himself. “Let us help Yennefer.”

“Hello?”

Yennefer freezes.

By the ledge, Ameer tenses. Regis’s eyes go wide.

Someone’s here.

Adrenaline courses through Yennefer as she turns.

A woman is standing only a few yards away. Her hair is chestnut, tied in a complicated plaited bun popular in Nilfgaard. She wears a blouse, the colour of periwinkles, with an azure corset over the top and puffed sleeves. Wreathes of roses, forget-me-nots and pansies hang by her waist, and her brown trousers are slightly scuffed from climbing. A ring of primroses and lavender lay atop of a blue crystal necklace. Her black eyes watch Yennefer carefully.

“Gwenllian.” She hears Regis breathe above her. But she keeps her eyes locked with the woman.

“Hello there.” Yennefer calls to her. “Who are you?”

“I was going to ask the same. What are you doing here?” Her Nilfgaardian accent is strong. She doesn’t look up at the stone ledge – Ameer must be hiding himself and Regis in an illusion. Good. Unfortunately, it’s too late to hide herself.

“I’m something of a herbalist.” Yennefer lies. “I’m looking for ebony spleenwort. I was told they grew around here.” That’s what Regis said, she thinks. She hopes.

“Ah, I see. How did you get in here?”

Through the front entrance, which is heavily guarded and blocked with a huge boulder. “I found a very old, and rather small, passageway. It required some climbing to get to, but I managed. How did you arrive here? If there’s an easier way to get in and out, I’d love to know. I haven’t seen a single living soul anywhere else in the ruins to ask.”

“I came through a small tunnel as well.” Gwenllian replies vaguely.

“Are you a herbalist?”

“Yes, indeed I am. I was looking for a certain flower.” She walks to Yennefer, reaching her with surprising speed. “Although, I do not need to anymore.”

“Why is that?”

The woman kneels down, and takes Yennefer’s hand. She kisses the back of it softly. “For now I have found the most beautiful flower to ever lay my eyes upon.”

Oh. Well, this is an unexpected development. Maybe Yennefer can use it to her advantage.

“My goodness. I don’t know what to say to such kind flattery.” Yennefer hides her face with mock coyness.

“Flattery? No, I speak only truths.” Gwenllian stands up. “For you truly are a beauty. That is why it pains me to tell you that these ruins are dangerous, and you should leave immediately.”

“Dangerous? However so?”

“I have been searching these ruins for herbs myself, along with an archaeologist friend of mine. And he says these ruins are in great danger of collapsing soon.” She’s quite convincing. But between her shaky alibi, the panther in her garden, and her supposed acquaintance with Bedlam, this is most certainly a lie. “I was just gathering some last herbs, and then making my way out. Perhaps we should leave together.”

Damn it. Yennefer doesn’t sense any magic in this woman, but she does sense something dangerous. Well, she’s hanging out in ruins claimed by a drug dealing gang, so she has to be. Best case scenario, she’ll force Yennefer to leave and Yennefer will have to leave the sleuthing to Regis and Ameer. Worst case scenario, she’ll kill Yennefer on the journey out.

Fighting isn’t an option Yennefer wants to resort to, not when she can’t gauge the power of this woman. She needs to try and convince, or trick her, into leaving. And she has an idea.

“That’s a true shame. I was so hoping to find some ebony spleenwort.”

“I am sure there are other caves you can get your herbs from.” Gwenllian replies nonchalantly.

“Yes, but I wanted the herbs from _elven ruins_. You see, according to elven legend, they used a special breed of ebony spleenwort in crafting certain potions. I’m sure this subspecies can only be found in areas largely untouched by human civilisation – like ruins.”

“A subspecies of ebony spleenwort?” Gwenllian looks surprised. “I have not heard of such a thing.”

Shit. Yennefer feigns confidence. “Oh, it’s common knowledge among all experienced herbalists. You really haven’t heard of it?” She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, of course. Your accent sounds Nilfgaardian. Perhaps that is why. I’m sure everyone has heard of it in the north.”

Gwenllian glances away, looking embarrassed. “I…Hm. Perhaps Nilfgaardian herbal lore is not as thorough as our northern neighbours.”

Good. Yennefer’s lying skills haven’t waned. “Well, I’m more than happy to leave with you, but I’m afraid there are plenty of others who will come here regardless.” She really hopes this works.

Gwenllian frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, this subspecies of ebony spleenwort is _very_ rare, you understand? The prices in the markets are extortionately high. And there are many herbalists out there desperate for money. I can guarantee that more will come here, even if the place is on the brink of collapse.”

At this, Gwenllian’s gaze darkens. “Is that so? I do not like the sound of that.”

“Me neither. It would be dreadful if someone got hurt.” Yennefer says innocently. She pretends to think for a moment. “…You know, there is something we could do.”

“We?”

“Yes. I know the northern herbalists, I know what they’re like. If I was able to convince them that there was no ebony spleenwort in these ruins, that I searched and searched and couldn’t find any, they’ll just move on. No one will come to these ruins, and no one will get hurt.”

Gwenllian smiles suddenly. “I know women like you. Always scheming, always so quick to think up of new plans.”

Yennefer begins to panic – has Gwenllian seen through her lie? – until Gwenllian continues. “I know a woman like you wouldn’t do anything for free. What do you want out of this?”

“Hmm…Well, since I’ve trekked all the way through these horrid caves, it would be a shame to leave without what I was looking for. You seem to have good knowledge of elven ruins. Perhaps you could help me find some more of this ebony spleenwort.”

Gwenllian frowns, brow furrowed in concentration. She turns away, arms folded, foot tapping against the ground as she thinks.

“You cannot be here. But I…Hm. It would certainly be a shame if so many herbalists kept on appearing, and they got hurt.” By hurt, she means murdered. It would be incredibly suspicious, and Nilfgaardian soldiers aren’t stupid. “And they will be more willing to listen to a northern herbalist than a Nilfgaardian one, certainly…” She looks back at Yennefer. “I suppose your help could be valuable. But you _must_ stay here. I can search for this plant, but the caves are treacherous. I know how to traverse them correctly, and you will only get in my way.” No, she just doesn't want Yennefer finding anything she shouldn't be.

“Perfect.” Yennefer sits on a block of rubble, trying not to show her relief at Gwenllian agreeing to this plan. “I despise climbing. Please, by all means. That would be very kind of you.”

Gwenllian laughs. “Ah, I have difficulty saying no to beautiful women. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Philippa.” It’s the first one that comes into her head.

“Philippa.” Gwenllian repeats. “…You know, you look somewhat familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Dandelion’s and Priscilla’s ballads about herself and Geralt. Damn it! “I don’t believe so. After all,” she smiles, “I don't think you'd forget a face like mine, would you?”

“…You are right. You are very right. I never forget a beautiful face. Please, wait here. I will not be long.”

With surprising speed, she slips into the shadows. When she’s gone, out of sight and earshot, Yennefer turns back to the stone ledge.

“Quickly, I don’t know how much time we have.” She begins to climb. Regis said that herb was rare enough – hopefully he’s right.

When she nears the top, Regis and Ameer pull her through the gap. The other side is more cluttered with rubble, so the climb is less sheer, and no one falls or trips.

“I am so sorry, Yennefer.” Ameer says, distressed. “When I slipped, my mind got distracted, and I was not listening out for anyone approaching. I am sorry I did not hide you in time.”

“Don’t worry.” Yennefer smooths out her hair. “It wasn’t your fault. We thought no one would be up here, so we were all caught off guard. Anyway, I managed. And I thought was getting rusty.”

“Her being here can’t be a coincidence.” Regis says gravely. “I knew there was something…not right about her. I just didn’t think she’d be working with drug dealers. What could you tell about her, now that you’ve seen her?”

“I don’t think she’s magic.” Yennefer tells him. At this, he looks surprised.

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes. There’s something about her that’s off-putting though, like you said. I just don’t know what. How about you, Ameer? What did you think?”

“I found her unsettling.” He frowns. “And she smelt so strongly of flowers, I could not tell much else.”

“Well, either way, we’d better hurry. Hopefully those herbs are somewhere difficult to reach.” Yennefer isn’t sure if she can lie her way out of the situation a second time.

“Should I stay here? Keep up an illusion of you?” Ameer asks.

“Can’t you cast one, and then continue walking with us?” Regis asks.

However, Ameer shakes his head. “If I do that, the illusion will not be able to move or speak. Gwenllian will realise straight away. If I am to make it convincing, I will need to stay here.”

“No, come with us.” Yennefer decides. “If we run into anyone else, we’ll need you to cast another illusion.” Unfortunately, she has no charms enchanted with invisibility on her. “We cannot risk being found again.”

Ameer looks up at the stone rubble. “Let us hurry, then. If we could climb through there, someone else could.”

They begin to travel through the ruins once more, a lot more hastily this time. Down twists and turns, Yennefer’s spell the only source of light this deep in the ruins. How long is this going to continue on for? Yennefer is eager to leave this place as soon as possible now she’s been spotted, her presence known.

But soon, their path comes to an abrupt halt.

Ahead of them, the rock walls end, and open up into a huge chamber. Yennefer approaches it cautiously, since there’s no barrier that might stop her from falling off. She quickly realises she doesn’t need her spell to see anymore, for the chamber she peers into is lit up brightly with numerous torches.

“Goodness.” Regis whispers as he stares down with her. The chamber is large and spacious, at least 50 metres high and 100 metres wide. However, they're just close enough to see clearly what’s going on, though any fine details are beyond Yennefer's vision at this height. Machine and distilleries set up across the old elven floors are gradually being dismantled, pipes and boilers taken apart by workers in masks, overalls and thick gloves.

And, sitting on the base of a broken pillar, is Francis Bedlam, King of Beggars. Wearing the cloak, his hood down, he sits with a wooden crate on his lap. His face wrought with concentration, he rifles through the contents with one hand, and writes something down with the other.

One of the workers approaches him. “Boss, we’ve finished dismantling.”

Bedlam passes the crate to the worker, and stands up. “Good. Put these with the rest of the cargo. How many more to go?”

“Three crates, and one big rock.” The worker answers.

Bedlam sighs. “I guess this is the problem with having such a lucrative system. It means we have much more work to do.”

“Man, it’s hot in here.” One of the workers complains, wiping his brow. “Can we turn off the heater? Not like we’re making the wares anymore.” A heater. That explains the warm temperature of the ruins. She wonders what’s fuelling it – since they had Kalkstien’s dispatcher, it could very well be magical too.

“Yeah, turn it off.” Bedlam frowns. “You try and nick it, though, and I’ll kill you.”

“It ain’t fair that Gwen got one, though!”

“She bought that herself. This one was a gift from our dearly departed Rat.” Rat? Does he mean Parviz? “And just ‘cause we’re going to be packing up doesn’t mean we won’t ever make the wares again. So I’ll need that.” He turns to one of the other workers. “Keep an eye on that prick. I don’t trust him.”

He walks over to the pile of dismantled equipment, holding something in his hands Yennefer hadn’t seen before. Small, rectangular shaped, barely the size of his hand. It has two buttons on it, and nothing else. Very simple and ordinary looking.

Bedlam points the contraption at the mass of equipment, and it emits a loud, shrieking sound.

Now Yennefer understands what noise has been bothering Regis and Ameer.

While Yennefer only winces, finding the noise unpleasant but otherwise harmless, the effect it has on her monster companions is astounding. Both Regis and Ameer are brought to their knees, desperately covering their ears with their hands, crying out in pain.

Shit! She doesn’t know how to help them. Are they going to be heard as they cry out in pain? But when she looks down into the chamber, not a single person looks upwards. The noise of the device is just too loud.

She kneels down by Regis and Ameer, who writhe on the ground in agony.

“What can I do?” She hates to see them is so much pain. Her mind wracks through each spell she knows – plenty of spells to muffle noise made by the user, but not to block out external noises like this.

Regis grits his teeth, clutching his ears painfully. “Keep watching Bedlam!” Each laboured word is wracked with pain.

Yennefer stands up reluctantly. She wishes there was something she could do. But she heeds Regis’s words, and walks back to the edge of the lookout point.

At first, nothing happens. Bedlam just points the device at the equipment, bored and only irritated by the noise, having no idea of the torment he’s causing above him.

But then, the dismantled equipment emits a bright white glow. At long last, Bedlam lowers the device. The terrible noise stops.

And to her amazement, the equipment shrinks.

Yennefer watches as the glow fades, leaving behind boilers and pipes now no larger than a handbag.

But it also makes perfect sense. The tiny grate in the sewers, the giant sword at Bedlam’s meeting on the bridge, and the garden shears outside Gwenllian’s house.

She hurries back to Regis and Ameer. They remain lying on the ground, panting and shaking. They’re huddled together, still trying to cover their ears.

“Regis. Ameer.” She speaks more quietly this time, now that the noise has stopped. She gets no response.

Frowning, she reaches out to shake Regis’s shoulder. He jumps at her touch, opening his eyes in surprise.

“Wh-What –” He looks at her foggily. “Yennefer?”

“Shh.” She puts her finger to her lips. “Stay quiet.”

Ameer moans next to him. “I-Is it over?”

“It’s over.” She whispers.

Groaning, they both sit up. Pained and shaken, breathing hard. Ameer grips Regis's arm tightly, his nails digging in sharply. 

“What…What was that?” Ameer demands weakly.

“He used a small device to make his equipment shrink. I think it might be the Zerrikanian transmutator.”

Regis staggers to his feet and pulls up Ameer. “Like the cutters?”

“And the grate. They must have killed Parviz for it.” This certainly isn’t compression, for the objects were not reduced to jade figurines, and Bedlam is no sorceress. This is something else entirely.

She walks back to the ledge, Regis and Ameer following slowly in tow, to see Bedlam looking at the transmutator in satisfaction. “Can’t believe Rat hid these from us the entire time, the prick. Bet he wanted to sell it off and get a fortune for it.”

Another worker approaches Bedlam, carrying another wooden crate. But his stance is bow legged, his gait slow, as if he’s carrying something heavy.

“’Ere it is, boss.” He dumps it down on the ground, massaging his shoulders. “Next batch.”

“Open it for me.”

The worker obliges, and Yennefer herself peers into the crate. And when she sees the contents, the mystery begins to make sense.

Crystals. Rows upon rows of geometric, polished gems. Crimson reds, deep indigos, emerald greens and amethyst purples. Some glitter with silver dust, some are lined with golden veins. But many are a dull, matte blue. Not real crystals.

“We’ve run out of silver chains, boss.” The worker tells him. “What should we do?”

Bedlam sighs. “Not really our job…But, the Nilfgaardians might get suspicious. If they search too hard, too thoroughly, they’ll realise that most of the crystals are actually grisial.” He thinks about it. “…Go out and get some more chains. We don’t need to apply them, just have them there, as if we’re gonna assemble them once we leave the city. That’ll look more convincing. And I’ll shrink some down to earring size. That way, we can transport more in fewer crates.”

Of course. Yennefer steps away from the edge. “The crystals…they’ve been a front for drug smuggling this entire time.” Her dream with Corinne Tilly…she walked across a field of crystals. Was the dream trying to warn her all this time?

“They’ve been supplying these crystals at a cheap price to the jewellers in the cities, who most likely believe they’ve stumbled across some good deals. The crystals become a fashionable trend among the populace, and therefore an entirely normal and frequent item being imported into Novigrad and Oxenfurt. As the crystals become commonplace, they no longer catch the soldiers’ attention or arouse any suspicion, allowing the real wares – the drugs – to get in unnoticed.” Regis shakes his head. “I must admit, it’s a most clever scheme.”

“Bedlam.”

The Nilfgaardian accented voice catches their attention in the hall below. Once more, they carefully watch the scene unfolding. Yennefer’s heart sinks when she sees Gwenllian approach Bedlam, looking rather irritated.

“What is it?” He asks. “We’re busy here.”

“Well, we are about to get busier.” She sits down on the broken pillar he had been sitting on only a few minutes ago. “We have an intruder problem.”

Bedlam’s face darkens. “What?”

“A woman, a herbalist. She said her name was Philippa and she was searching for ebony spleenwort. I left her alone for a few minutes to get her the herbs, and she has disappeared. I fear she was lying.”

“What did she look like? Describe her.” Bedlam demands.

“Raven black hair. Violet eyes. She wore black and white, with –”

“A black choker and pendant around her neck.” Bedlam finishes for her angrily. Well, shit. “That’s no herbalist. That’s Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“All this time, I was speaking to a celebrity?” Gwenllian almost sounds pleased. “How exciting. Of course, I should have recognised her from Callonetta’s poems. That was foolish of me.”

“This means we have a big problem on our hands. Why the hell did you leave her alone? You should’ve killed her on the spot!”

Gwenllian shrugs. “She was very beautiful.”

“Oh, you useless lesbian!” Bedlam pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re just like that stupid bard. The second you see a pretty woman, all your common sense flies out of the window!”

Gwenllian holds up her hands. “Now, now. You were the one who said we have to be cautious, yes? Killing indiscriminately will catch the wrong kind of attention, you have told me many times. I wanted to see what the situation was before I did anything.”

“She still played you like a fucking fiddle.”

“Yes, yes, that is true.” She admits. “What can I say? We all have our weaknesses.”

“We’ve got to find her. And if she’s here, that old man and elf will be here, too.”

Gwenllian, who shows no fear or reverence towards the supposed ‘boss’ of this enterprise, simply frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“She visited me with an elf from Ofier. And I had some men follow her back to the Chameleon in Novigrad, just in case. She’s travelling with another man. Old, grey hair, carrying a bag –”

“Full of herbs.” Gwenllian answers, her own face tightening into a scowl. “I know the man. He is friends with Priscilla. And there is something about him I cannot put my finger on. He is powerful for certain, maybe dangerous.”

Besides her, Regis tenses. How did Gwenllian figure that out? Just what is the extent of her powers?

“Well, I know why they’re here.” Bedlam sighs. “They’re friends with the ones at the Chameleon, so they’re looking for the Rat’s real killer to save them getting hanged.” Again, the Rat – their unpleasant nickname for Parviz? Or a code name? After all, not all the workers can be trusted with such information. And Bedlam is a careful man.

Gwenllian frowns. “That is not my fault! I said, we should not frame them! But no one listened to me. I tried to get them off the trail when they came to me about the murder. I even told them about Scar face to try and satisfy them!” Scar face…That must be Tye.

“You told them about Scar face?” Bedlam exclaims angrily.

“Why not? He is long gone, who knows where. I doubt he will return, and no one can associate him with us.”

Anger and frustration envelopes Yennefer rapidly. She curls her hand into a fist, digging her nails into her palm to stop her cursing. Gwenllian doesn’t know where Tye is. Neither does Bedlam, it seems. If all this was for nothing…

No. They have to reveal more, something useful, anything. So she stays listening, burying her anger for later.

Bedlam shakes his head. “You know, I never paid much heed to that phrase, ‘if you want something done right, do it yourself’. Thought, if you have enough men who are loyal to you, then you shouldn’t bother micromanaging, else there’s no reason to have them to begin with. But if I’d realised all this would happen, that Rat would die and we’d have a bloody sorceress poking her nose in our business, I would’ve gone to steal the transmutators myself. You shouldn’t have let this happen!”

Gwenllian stands up abruptly and walks angrily over to him. “Well, I told you I could do it myself! If it had just been me, we would not be in this situation! I could have slipped in, grabbed the transmutator, and left without alerting anyone! You were the one who insisted I bring Scar Face and Panther! So you are to blame, not me, _you_ are to blame for Panther messing up and killing Rat.”

They stand face to face, each glaring viciously, but neither afraid of the other.

“…This whole endeavour was pointless.” Gwenllian is the first to step away, though her gaze is still evenly matched on Bedlam. “Why bother stealing the transmutators? Everything was going fine.”

Bedlam laughs. Not a humorous laugh. One of disbelief. “I’ve told you time and time again. The protests were gathering too much attention. Too many Nilfgaardians stationed in Oxenfurt now. We can’t risk it, so we need to move our base. And we needed the transmutator to do that without getting caught red handed smuggling drugs and equipment by the Black Ones. I’m a careful man. It’s what made me survive the invasion. And I’m not going to make a stupid mistake out of carelessness and catch their attention.”

Gwenllian frowns. “Why? They are only soldiers. Why do you fear them?”

Again, he laughs. “I thought you were from Nilfgaard? You know how ruthless they are.” Before she can speak, he corrects himself. “No. You know, but you don’t fear them like we do. Of course you don’t. ‘Cause you can just…slip away, entirely unnoticed. They can’t harm a hair on your head. So you’ll never understand. But for me? My men? Stealing the transmutators and getting our wares out the city was necessary. To save this business, and to save us from the noose.”

Gwenllian rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, of course…just tell me what I am to do, then.”

“Find the intruders and kill them. If they get word out to the Black Ones, we’re all dead.”

Yennefer steps hastily away from the stone ledge, turning to Regis, her mind spinning with this information.

“They’re not the murderers.” She whispers. “There’s another player involved in this.”

“The real panther of your vision. He might know where Tye is.” Regis whispers back.

“But I do not understand.” Ameer frowns. “You only saw two people in your dream. Yet Gwenllian claims to have been there too.”

“I don’t know.” That puzzles her, too. “But we can think about it later. Let’s get out before they catch us.”

Quickly, they climb back over the stone rubble, Regis effortlessly but Ameer and Yennefer almost tripping in their haste. Yennefer casts a light spell to avoid the worst of the debris.

“The entrance is going to be even more heavily guarded now.” She whispers. “Regis, you’re going to have to stay as mist.”

“I’ll transform when we get closer –”

“Ah. I found you.”

A Nilfgaardian accent.

Yennefer whirls around to see Gwenllian sitting in the gap above the rubble. Her black eyes drift slowly over the three of them.

“Bedlam was right. The three of you are here together.” How the hell did she get up here so fast? How did she get up there at all? She certainly didn’t pass them! Did she climb up the walls of the cavernous hall?

Next to her, Regis freezes. His eyes go wide with realisation.

“Yennefer, run.”

“What?”

“Run!” He shouts. His fingers elongate into claws, his teeth become sharp.

Then Ameer is dragging her away by the arm. She turns and runs with him, not even allowing herself the time to look back. If Regis tells her to run, then she will run.

Through the twists and turns of the ruins they rush, tripping over fallen rocks and uneven tiles in their haste. Sporadically, the transmutator must be going off, for Ameer keeps on flinching. At this distance, though, it's not loud enough to cause the same damage as last time. 

“Will Regis be all right?” He asks nervously.

“He’s a higher vampire. He’ll be fine.” Yennefer states. He wasn’t fine with Vilgefortz, though. So her statement isn’t particularly reassuring.

Soon, they reach the stone ledge they climbed up. Ameer jumps down first, then helps Yennefer climb down too. No sooner has her feet touched the ground does she hear noises coming from the chasm below.

Walking up the path, she sees a group of gang members, 10 strong, all armed with weapons.

“Shit.” Should she fight them? She could kill them all. But one mistake, one slip up, and the medallion breaks…

No, she can’t risk it. “Ameer.” She taps him, lowering her voice. “Can you hide us?”

“I already am.” He assures her. “But we must be quiet, and we must be still. That will make it easier.”

The first of the workers climbs up the ladder. “When we see the intruders, take out the sorceress first. She’s the most powerful.” He’s a man with a crooked nose and shortly cropped hair. “When it comes to the elf, we need to get close and cut it down.”

More gang members reach the top of the ladder. Another, with a tattoo on his neck, scoffs. “I can take down an elf no problem.”

“Don’t underestimate ‘em. Me brother was in the Redanian army, saw a Scoia’tael unit wipe almost all the men in his unit out from two hundred metres away. This elf is probably armed too, so be careful.”

“What about the old man?” Another gang member asks, a woman with a black bowl cut. “He should be easy to kill, right?”

“I don’t know. But be on guard. Let’s wait by the entrance.”

The ten of them begin to walk towards Yennefer and Ameer. Staring straight at them, but not seeing them. Yennefer tenses, trying to stand perfectly still as the throng of armed members walk past. Each one comes close enough for Yennefer to see each spot on their face, each eye lash, each wrinkle. One man pushes right past her, knocking into her so roughly she almost loses her balance. But even he doesn’t notice her.

Only when the gang members have passed does she realise she was holding her breath. “Let’s go.”

“They’ll all be at the entrance.” Ameer rubs the back of his neck. “To hide such an obvious noise from so many people…I am still out of practice. I think it will be easier if I cast something to distract them as we make the noise.”

“Like what? A monster?”

“Mm…That may cause them to scatter and call for reinforcements. Or…It may scare them away. Yes, I will do that.”

Somewhere in the caverns, an inhuman screech echoes across the rocks.

Ameer stares down the stone hallways. “What was that?”

Yennefer grabs his arm and pulls him along wordlessly. She recognises that scream. From ekimmaras and katakans. And from the burning body of a higher vampire, a scream so loud it shattered the windows of Castle Stygga.

No. That scream just now wasn’t Regis, she tells herself. It can’t have been him. His scream was at a lower pitch…or is she just remembering wrong? No, no time to think. She continues striding down the path with Ameer in tow, not wanting to think of that horrible sight. She has to trust Regis can hold his own.

Soon, they reach the entrance once more – the two members guarding the entrance have been joined by ten. Behind them, the stone slab lies tantalisingly close. Yennefer needs to get over, cast the spell, and open the entrance.

Still casting an illusion to hide them, Ameer turns to her. “Which monster shall I choose? I always think humans will run from monsters, but some are foolish enough to try and fight them.”

“…Giant centipedes, or pale widows.” Yennefer decides. “They live underground, and I doubt there are many who would want to fight anything in the insectoid class, let alone something as grotesque as that.”

“Yes, good idea.” He steps forwards –

And there’s another inhuman scream. Two, in fact.

Before Yennefer or Ameer can speak, before the gang members can even comprehend the sound, something crashes into Ameer.

It’s Regis. He’s bloodied and battered, and knocks Ameer over. Ameer lands on his front, hitting his forehead against a mossy rock.

Yennefer only has a few seconds to try and process what’s happening before all hell breaks loose.

Ameer’s head is bleeding, but he’s conscious. The medallion – where is the medallion? He fell on his front, is it broken?! Regis coughs up blood, why is he so bloodied? Who is he fighting? Ameer’s illusion has been instantly shattered, meaning the gang members have spotted them. And she senses more than sees someone racing towards Regis, no doubt responsible for his bloodied state.

There is no time to plan, to figure out the best course of action. But Yennefer has been on the battlefield before, been forced to fight for her life.

So she readies a lightning spell, and faces the gang members who brandish their swords and cross bows.

No time to think, or hide behind illusions.

Time to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it was great that you can have Ciri say she likes women in Witcher 3 and no one acts hostilely towards her. Witcher 3 isn't exactly a shining pillar of LGBT representation, but it's still way better than Witcher 2 in my opinion, which had gems like Dethmold (the creepy sadist mage who kidnaps a young girl if you take Roche's route) and the line "Ma favourite kind o' magic.........LESBOMANCY" which, uh...yikes lol
> 
> Also, the little introduction at the beginning is from the Witcher Compendium


	16. Hostility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Spoilers for the books! Especially Lady of the Lake)

_“Higher vampires are, in fact, much more similar to humans than to those bat-like blood slurpers. They not only resemble us in appearance, but also share our intelligence and behavioural patterns. This means they do not squat in distant forest or hide in the shadows. On the contrary, they are particularly fond of cities, where they live out deceivingly normal lives. Even witchers are not capable of recognizing them at once, for their medallions remain perfectly motionless in the presence of higher vampires. Yet all these similarities should not blind us to an essential difference: unlike men, higher vampires are immortal. Those who have faced them in combat and survived can be counted on one hand.” – The Bestiary on Higher Vampires_

“Run!”

Behind him, Regis hears footsteps running, and he can only hope Ameer and Yennefer continue running, all the way down the twists and turns of the caverns, out of the ruins. But he cannot turn to check. He has no time to explain the grave danger to them.

Gwenllian stands in front of him.

And at long last, he realises who she really is.

Maybe it’s the lack of flowers in this cave, his sense of smell free from their overwhelming fragrance in her garden. Maybe it’s how she managed to find them so quickly, how she inexplicably got from the cavernous hallway to their location. Maybe it’s the fact that she was walking down entirely dark tunnels without holding a torch or using a light spell like Yennefer. Perhaps the fact that she claimed to have been at the murder scene, and yet Yennefer could only see two people in her vision, or that there were only two sets of footprints instead of three, or that she managed to get past the locked hatch and various traps set up. Or the ravens that attacked him, seemed so desperate to please her, following her command.

Or maybe, the confusion and sense of foreboding about her that’s been swirling around in his head, the puzzle pieces trying to fit together, have finally clicked. Simple as that.

Well, only one way to know for sure.

With no warning, he shifts into his vampiric state, and instantly his vision heightens. His sense of smell and hearing improve.

And so, he can see her own transformation perfectly when Gwenllian’s form changes. Like him, her nails grow long and razor sharp. Like him, her eyes turn entirely black. Like him, her teeth become sharp and deadly.

A Higher Vampire.

Instantly, he launches himself at her, swiping with his claws. But she’s fast. She dodges, jumping nimbly backwards, and braces her feet against the rubble. In one quick movement, she propels herself forwards, claws ready to attack his face. But she misses. He vanishes into black mist, and retreats away from her.

Gwenllian laughs, her voice echoing across the stone walls. “Come now. Do not be a coward. Or should I take this fight to your friends?”

At this, he rematerializes, watching her intensely. She watches him just as intensely. Slowly, they circle each other, like dogs ready to rip each other apart. Each one itching to attack, but each one afraid to. They’re both higher vampires. If they really wanted, they could kill each other. Permanently.

“How did you hide it from me?” Regis asks, his voice cutting through the rising and violent tension between them.

“Anthos. Mi ioes anthos.” She says simply, speaking in their shared tongue. A language so old, a language that impossibly survives, even though it has no place in this world. “Flowers hide my scent. I distil the petals and pollen to create oils, which I rub on my body. It works very well. But what about you? Why did I not realise you were a vampire?”

“Erpis. Mi cokar erpis com ta.” Garlic, rosemary, any herb that masks his scent. Ameer himself said he couldn’t smell Regis’s vampire essence, and a vulpess’s sense of smell is superior to that of a vampire’s; if the herbs worked on Ameer, then they worked on Gwenllian too. Unfortunately, it seems Gwenllian's own floral disguise also worked perfectly against Ameer. “And my ability allows me to blend in with humans quite easily.” His ‘over-developed sense of empathy’ as Geralt once called it means he understands, and can therefore mimic, humans far better than any other vampire.

“Hm. And you were with Callonetta. I would not have guessed she was friends with a vampire…Does she know?”

“Yes. And do these friends of yours know about you?”

“Bedlam does. A few others. The rest think I am a sorceress.”

He looks at her neck. “And that wound…Self-inflicted? Another way to throw me off?"

Gwenllian says nothing.

"If so, that’s a lot of dedication, hurting yourself on the off-chance that you see a vampire.” Did she slow the wound healing in some way? He's surprised that it hasn't healed over yet, considering the rapid regeneration of vampires. If she's found some way to overcome that, he's impressed. Gwenllian is clearly skilled at hiding her nature. Even Yennefer’s vision worked against them, for such magic cannot trace higher vampires. This entire time they thought two perpetrators were at the scene; there had actually been three.

She scrapes her claws slowly against the rock. “Where are Yennefer and the aguara?” She smiled. “I figured that one out quickly, as soon as I saw him. I could smell he was different from the normal Aen Siedhe. I could smell the desert fox blood within him. Maybe he should try using herbs, too, like we do.”

“I won’t let you harm them.” He scrapes his own claws together. A display of aggression, a warning. “If you try, I will hurt you.”

She smiles. “It has been a long time since I last fought another higher vampire. Let us see who shall prevail.”

The fight starts.

Both vampires launch forwards in attack, but she reaches him first, swiping down at his face again. He blocks her with his arm, then grabs her by the scruff and throws her over him, as hard as he can. She crashes into the wall, her head leaving behind blood at the impact site. But no sooner has she slid to the ground does she jump back to her feet, running up at him again. This time, her swipe barely misses, slicing the air only an inch from his nose. Again and again, she swipes at him, forcing him further and further back towards the rubble, aiming to trap him. His back hits the rubble. She brings her claw down again, but he grabs her wrist, and then her other wrist when she tries again. They wrestle. But that’s her mistake. She’s faster, but he’s stronger. He overpowers her, twisting her arms viciously, hearing them pop out of the sockets. Then he kicks her away, sending her flying and landing in a heap, temporarily incapacitated.

“Wait…I know you.” He realises, watching her closely.

She groans, forcing her bones back to their correct positions with a grimace. “And how is that?”

“You’re the Nilfgaardian Beast. I heard about you. A trouble maker who kept on killing livestock thirty or so years ago.” Intermittently, the transmutator keeps on going on and off infuriatingly. But at this distance, they’re too far away for it to incapacitate him like it did before.

“People were getting suspicious. They cycled through what animals they thought it could be – bears, wolves…panthers.” Of course. “But none of these creatures were the guilty party. Nilfgaardians don’t believe in vampires, but at this point they were willing to consider it. The other vampires in the area had to leave Nilfgaard because of this incident, though not before they tried to stop the so-called Beast. But the vampire in question fought back against them. Killed one in the process.”

Gwenllian gets to her feet, flexing her shoulders. “I am surprised you have heard of that story, for it was over three decades ago. You are well read. But I am too. And I have heard of a story, about a vampire who travelled with humans. He loved humans so much, he killed his own blood brethren for those humans. You are the Toussaint Murderer, am I correct? Ha. And I thought I was a monster.”

Regis snaps. Her words blind him with rage. He rushes towards her, slicing down with his claws.

But she dodges. Leaps to the side, again and again, each time avoiding his attacks. Her nimbleness only enrages Regis further. He only gets in one hit out of the dozen he tried – he manages to slash her stomach, making her bleed profusely. But now, he’s too close to her.

A mistake.

Gwenllian opens her mouth and screams. All around them, the walls begin to shake, chunks of rock dislodging and falling down from the sound waves.

Regis shields his face, tries to ground himself, but the force is too powerful. What is this? Some kind of bruxa screech? But far more powerful than one he’s ever faced before. He can withstand normal bruxae screeches. This one seems to have three times the intensity.

Gritting his teeth, he tries to stagger forwards against the blast. Gwenllian screams even harder.

It’s too much. Regis is knocked backwards. His back collides with the rubble behind him that they climbed through earlier – and then keeps on going.

The force of the screech has disrupted the rubble. The screech sends him flying through, tumbling across the hard stone ground. He digs his claws against the surface to try and right himself.

The screech suddenly stops. His head spinning, ears aching, he tries to sit up.

Then the transmutator begins to start up again.

Now he’s too close. Far too close. And the sound is agonising. Regis screams as the noise wrenches through him, like a sword through his skull. He can’t think. Can’t see. All he knows is the terrible pain.

When it stops, he collapses in relief. His head throbs. He feels sick. The adrenaline in his blood is making his whole body shake. Gasping for breath, he tries to sit up, only to collapse again for his efforts. His ears are pounding – in one, an infuriating high-pitched sound masks all other noises. In the other, he can hear nothing. The contraption has deafened him. Temporarily, of course, but he has no idea how long it will last.

He doesn’t hear Gwenllian approaching him.

Only when she’s too close does he see her figure standing over him. She looks exhausted, gasping for breath not unlike him. She staggers over, grabs his arm, and bites down on his hand.

Regis snatches it back. What the hell is she doing? Hands are hardly a vital organ.

Gwenllian sits back, still panting, and examines her slashed clothes.

“I liked this outfit.” She complains, breathing hard.

An arrogant move. Regis may be recoiling from the heavy hit, but lowering her guard while he’s so close to her is foolish.

He tries to lift his arm, shift his claws – and can’t.

He can’t move.

Gritting his teeth, Regis tries to sit up. He can’t. His entire body is paralysed.

Now, the panic begins to set in. This isn’t normal. “What have you done to me?”

“Oh, you noticed?” She smiles. Her voice sounds muffled, distant. He can just barely make out what she’s saying. “My ability. I can borrow the skills of other vampire species. Bruxae screams, the strength of fleders…and the somniferous saliva of alps."

Shit. That's why she bit him. Just like an alp, she introduced saliva into his blood stream. Now he can't move.

_Shit_.

"Of course, no bruxa screech could knock you off your feet, no alp could send you to sleep – or even paralyse you. But three at the same time? That is a different story.”

“You can stockpile them.” Regis realises. “Stockpile the powers, use three at once. That’s how you’ve paralysed me.”

“Very astute. It is tiring though.” Gwenllian sits down on a piece of dislodged rubble. Indeed, she looks pale now. Her nose is bleeding, and Regis can see sweat on her brow.

“But if the powers are numbered like that, then you only have limited access to them.” Regis guesses. “You can’t use them indefinitely.”

“Correct again. So it is lucky that the bruxae and alps like me so much. I am a very tender lover, you see.”

When she’s recovered, she’ll kill him, or chase after Yennefer and Ameer. Neither are desirable options. He has to keep her talking.

“I’m surprised they don’t try to kill you. After all, you broke the most important rule among our kind. You killed another vampire.”

“Oh, the vampires here in Novigrad have no idea about what happened in Nilfgaard.”

Regis desperately tries to move. But his entire body feels like stone. He can’t even make his fingers twitch, no matter how much energy he tries to channel into it. He tries to turn into mist – nothing. “So they don’t know you’re a murderer?”

Her eye twitches. He’s touched a nerve. “Bold words, coming from you.”

“Dettlaff was hurting innocent people. I did what I had to do. From what I’ve heard, the vampires in Nilfgaard were trying to stop you getting out of control and killing people. And you killed one of them.”

Gwenllian laughs. A hollow, bitter laugh.

“That is what you heard?” She shakes her head. “Colwyn was good at spreading around lies and propaganda. Twisting the truth to suit his own ends. They did a fantastic job of vilifying me. Do you know what really happened?”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“…When I was younger, I drank very little blood. At times, I would drink none at all. The others thought me a prude for it. They were constantly pressurising me, mocking me when I would not drink. It was all the rage back then. The fashionable thing to do. And, well, one day after a particularly bad end to a relationship, I caved. Drank far more than I normally would. After that…Well, my blood addiction began.”

Regis can’t turn his head to look at her properly. But from the corner of his eye, he can see her fixing her hair, tying it back up daintily, as if she was sitting in front of a vanity.

“I fell hard, I fell fast. I would perform the most daring feats, sneaking into castles unnoticed, drinking the blood from everyone living there without waking a single soul. The others loved that. Suddenly, all those who shunned me became my closest friends. I was the life at each party. But as addiction goes, it was not enough. I needed more. Over the years, I became more careless. My attempts at stealth began to fail. I was almost caught. Then I realised the other vampires were never my friends. I was just entertainment. Now, I had stopped being entertaining, and started becoming troublesome. They forbid me from drinking any more blood. Human blood, that is.”

Regis tries to move again, adrenaline coursing through him. He feels a muscle in his finger spasm, but that’s it. He still can’t move.

Gwenllian jumps down from the rubble and sits next to him. “I moved to cattle. At that point, any blood would do. And they were such easy targets! They could not fight back, they could not stab me with swords, attack me with torches and cross bows. Unfortunately, I became too…enthusiastic.” Her finger traces over her lips, as if remembering the taste. “I was so obsessed with the blood, and I had no restraint, so I began to kill them, rip them apart like fleders. Cow after cow, farm after farm, no one could stop me. That is when people began to notice. That is when monsters started to enter their mind. I was called the Nilfgaardian Beast. Witchers from the School of the Viper were paid a bounty to hunt me down. The other vampires decided to leave because of this. I hear they never returned. Fighting witchers can be so tedious and irritating, yes? So they got angry with me.”

Her face darkens. “I had ignored their orders. As if it was not their fault for this happening. They had decided enough was enough. They came to teach me a lesson. They promised it would take me a whole century to regenerate. Three against one. Not fair, is it? I was badly injured, but I fought for my life. And I used the abilities of other vampires to even the playing field. Like I said, bruxae really do love me, and I had the strength of garkains and fleders too. I ended up killing one. After that, every vampire was trying to kill me. So I fled. I ran from Nilfgaard, all the way to these barbaric northern kingdoms. I was confused, frightened, alone, and badly injured. I went through terrible cravings and withdrawal symptoms from the lack of blood. For the first two and a half decades, I recovered from my terrible wounds, staving off my cravings by attacking random cattle. The kingdoms were constantly engaged in wars, and every northerner chased me off, tried to kill me for my Nilfgaardian blood. And the Nilfgaardians saw anyone who was not working in the army, fighting or healing, as a traitor. I fell into a deep depression. And yet, when I reached this strange city, I was helped by a human. Not a vampire, a human.”

“Francis Bedlam.” He realises. “That’s why you do what he says.”

“Yes. He took me in, gave me shelter and food. Even when he found out my status, he did not care. He became my friend. A _real_ friend. So if Bedlam tells me to do this…” she raises back her arm, suddenly clawed, and thrusts it into his chest. He cries out loud as she tears muscle, breaks bone. “…Then I shall do it.”

Coughing up blood, he grits his teeth. “I killed Dettlaff because he was killing innocent people. But you…You’re just as bad as those Nilfgaardian vampires.”

She raises an eye brow. “And how is that?”

“Selling these drugs will only force people into addiction, poverty, maybe even overdose. And you don’t care. Like those vampires didn’t care about you. You know the pains of addiction, and yet you help to sell drugs to the most vulnerable people. They’ll end up like you, but they’ll perish, and they won’t have someone like Bedlam to help them.”

Her face tightens. “Do not speak such words. You know nothing.”

“I was addicted to blood too. So I know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

“I am beginning to tire of this conversation.” Gwenllian wipes the blood from her nose. “I do not like killing fellow vampires, so I will just cut you into pieces and scatter you.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Regis says quickly. “We can talk about this.”

“If it were your friends, your precious bard and dwarf from the Chameleon, would you do it?” She asks, her black eyes watching him. “You killed the vampire who saved you for killing innocent strangers. What would you do to save your beloved friends? You would kill me too. I know you would.”

He doesn’t bother trying to lie.

“Well, I am trying to save my friend. So forgive me for my lack of remorse. At least I am leaving you alive.”

Without waiting for a response, she slashes out. He feels his arm disconnect, feels blood pouring from the wound. He grits his teeth against the pain. Think, think!

“If you want to save your friend, then listen to me!” Regis shouts.

There’s only scorn on her face. “You are just trying to buy time.”

“There’s something you don’t know about Tye!”

Now, she hesitates. “What are you talking about?”

“Dandelion and Zoltan aren’t the only reasons we’re here. We’re searching for Tye. He’s a very dangerous man. He left Novigrad in a hurry because we were coming after him, but he’ll come back to tie up loose ends. Including you and Bedlam.”

“You are lying.”

“I’m not. He’s hurt my friend. He’ll hurt yours, too. You met Tye. You sensed something dangerous about him too, didn’t you?”

Gwenllian frowns. She looks troubled. She lowers her arm, thinking hard.

Perfect.

Because as they’ve been talking, Regis’s arm has been growing back. New flesh unaffected by the somniferous saliva. And, with that unparalysed flesh, he can turn into mist.

When his corporal form dissolves, it takes Gwenllian by surprise. She jumps back with wide eyes.

“How did you –”

Regis turns back. The shift from human to mist, and back to human, has rid his body of the paralysing poison.

Surprise gives him the upper hand. He slashes out at Gwenllian. His claws make contact with her throat, leaving behind a gash. Gasping, she clutches the wound, blood dripping from her mouth.

“You lied to me.” Her voice is hoarse, gargled.

“I didn’t lie. Tye is dangerous.” In particular, his poison is dangerous. But he won’t come back to kill Bedlam. He wouldn’t risk fighting Regis, Yennefer and Ameer for a man who knows nothing about him anyway.

Her wound is already healing. “Give up.” She spits blood. “I cannot let you leave.”

He reverts back to his vampire form, hissing, and lunges at her. In her weakness, she doesn’t dodge in time, and he bites down on her shoulder, through tendon and muscle, till he feels her bone.

She screams loudly, and assails him with strike after strike of her claws, reopening the wound in his chest. Soon, he has to let go and falls backwards. He can’t breathe properly. The pain in his chest is immense. He must have broken ribs, and his lungs must be in a terrible state.

Panting, Gwenllian takes a step back, shaking the blood and flesh from her claws with one hand. She can’t lift the other arm, thanks to the wound on her shoulder.

But Regis doesn’t move, either. The gash on his own chest is a mess, and he must wait for it to heal. No doubt she’s inflicted huge damage on his innards, and even breathing is agony. Any human would be instantly dead.

Soon, Gwenllian’s wound is almost healed entirely, but she looks reluctant to engage him again. Her eye flicker, her gaze focusing to the tunnel behind him for just a moment. It’s enough for Regis to realise what she’s going to do.

Gwenllian tries to run past him. When he blocks her path, she turns to dark blue smoke and flies past instead.

Regis turns to mist himself and flies after her. If she finds Yennefer and Ameer, she’ll cut them down in an instant.

She realises he’s chasing her, and flies around in circles, trying to confuse him.

“Leave them alone!” He changes back for a second, to try and reason with her. “You don’t need to kill them!”

“You do not get to tell me anything, you liar!” She changes back just to slash down at him, and he retaliates just as harshly. Together, they chase each other down the tunnels, interchanging between mist to vampire form, attacking each other at every opportunity.

But his efforts are in vain. Up ahead, he can see a gathering of gang members outside the main entrance – and Yennefer standing with Ameer, speaking quietly to each other. Gwenllian changes back, her claws extended and teeth bared.

“No!” Regis grabs her wrists tightly and pushes her back. “Stay away from them! They’ve done you no harm!”

“Then they should not have come here! They should not have gotten involved! They have left me no choice!” She hisses in his face, struggling against him. His face is sore from a nasty scratch she gave him. Her arms shake with effort.

Suddenly, she let’s go. He trips forwards from the sudden lack of resistance, and she dodges out of the way. Regis sees a glimpse of her grinning before she grabs him by the scruff and hurls him.

He has no time to change into mist before he crashes into something – someone.

First, Regis sees Yennefer.

She looks horrified at the scene, staring at his bloody clothes and wounds. There are no wounds on her body, though, which Regis is relieved to see. Her attention changes from him, to something at the entrance.

Next, Regis follows her gaze and sees the group of armed gang members. One shouts, “there they are! Get them!” Yennefer runs forwards, her back to Regis, facing this onslaught of swords and cross bows with a lightning spell in hand.

After that, Regis looks behind him who he crashed into. It’s Ameer. He’s lying on the ground, blood coming from his forehead. Wincing, he touches the wound tentatively.

Finally, Regis sees Gwenllian running towards them, claws and teeth bared.

“Ameer, stay down!” He shouts, getting to his feet and flashing his own claws. He hears an faint response that he can’t quite understand. As if underwater.

But he has no time to ask Ameer to speak again. Gwenllian crashes down her talons on him, the tips scratching his arms as he blocks it. He kicks her in the stomach, pushing her back.

But she’s not incapacitated. “You are weak.” She snarls as she gets up. “You are a higher vampire! If you wished to save your friends from the gallows, why not break them out yourself?”

Regis doesn’t bother answering her. It’s all taunts to try and goad him into attacking, leave Ameer vulnerable. So he does not move.

Hissing, she tries to attack him again, but each time he fends off her slashes, no matter how much it hurts him. Behind him, he can vaguely hear the dying shouts of the gang members, and the explosive power of Yennefer’s spell, accompanied by the thuds of bodies to the floor.

This time, Gwenllian tries to run past him, bending low to avoid his attacks. She shoves her whole body into him, knocking him backwards.

An opening. Ameer is vulnerable, looking up at the vampire in shock.

“Sorry, little desert fox. Nothing personal.” Gwenllian raises back her arm, claws razor sharp.

Regis manages to block the attack – barely in time. He can do nothing but stand in front of Ameer, and take the brunt of the attack. Her arm passes right through his chest, showering Ameer with gore and blood, who stares with frightened eyes.

Gritting his teeth, Regis grabs her hair and her shoulder, preventing her from removing her arm. It hurts immensely, but it also means she can’t move anymore, can’t go after Yennefer or Ameer.

“Go!” He shouts to Yennefer. “Take Ameer and go!”

Yennefer runs over to the entrance, stepping over dead and unconscious bodies that still spark with destructive magic, placing her hands on the stone slab. It begins to glow, and slowly slides over, opening up the cave to the outside.

“Regis, come on! Run!” She shouts.

“Not until you’re out safe!” He shouts back. Gwenllian tries to snatch back her arm, but his grip remains tight, no matter the pain.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Yennefer shouts incredulously. “She could kill you! We’re not leaving without you!”

As if heeding Yennefer’s words, Gwenllian changes her strategy. Instead of trying to pull away, she leans forwards and bites him.

He can only cry out in pain as her teeth dig into the nape of his neck. Cutting through flesh, threatening to burst those precious blood vessels. The same way he bit Dettlaff, drained the life from him. Now, he desperately tries to push her away.

His mind is almost blank with shock as the realisation occurs starkly to him. Is this it? Is she going to kill him?

Suddenly, he’s not in the elven ruins anymore.

The night sky is overflowing with stars, dripping with celestial bodies that bathe the city of Beauclair with soft, ethereal light, its illumination making all it touches appear intriguing, ghostly. The breeze is warm and gentle against his face, and he can taste mandrake moonshine in his mouth.

He sits in front of a fire, which warms him heartily. And in front of him, the sight warming him even more, is Geralt. Hair white as the stars above him, face unmarked by pain or poison.

“Know what? Think I just might.” He smiles. “Come on, now, don’t laugh. Maybe not today, or tomorrow…”

Oh. Memories, flashing before his eyes. He’s had this before. When he was being brutally burnt by Vilgefortz. Memories coursed through him, probably lasting no longer than milliseconds in reality. Back then, he saw his time as a drunkard, the toils of war…Milva, Cahir, Angoulême, Geralt, Dandelion, Zoltan, all their travels right back to their fateful encounter in the cemetery. Now, he sees Geralt. He sees their last meeting in Toussaint before Regis fled, the shameful blood of his brethren on his hands.

Is this it? Is he really going to die?

A horrible, guttural shrieking comes from behind him, jolting him out of his near-death flood of memories.

Gwenllian instantly lets go of him, her teeth dripping with blood, to look at the monstrosity. It’s a Pale Widow. Burst up from the ground, it writhes and twists its disgusting body, snapping with its pincers, showering clumps of dirt all over them.

“What the –” Gwenllian stares at it, just as disgusted and taken aback as he is. Quickly, Regis pushes her away, freeing her arm from his torso. Just in time. The second he steps away from her, a lightning spell shoots past him. It hits Gwenllian on the back. She gasps out in pain, landing on a heap in the floor. Electricity crackles across her body.

“Regis, let’s go!” Yennefer shouts once more. This time, he doesn’t argue.

The Pale Widow has flickered out of sight – an illusion. Ameer, his face now streaked with blood, almost collapses back onto the ground. Regis pulls him to his feet and drags him out of the cave, back into the open air. Yennefer waits for them to leave, then runs out after them, the stone slab closing moments after she passes through.

Outside, the night air is refreshingly cool after the warm and stale interior of the cave. It must only be past midnight, for the night is still in its infancy. The stars and moon provide more than enough light for Regis's nocturnal vision as he drags Ameer down the chasm path, but Yennefer is forced to use a light spell to see where she’s going.

“Please, Ameer. We must hurry.” The aguara is walking slowly, stumbling. Every now and then, he attempts to wipe the blood from his eye. Regis doesn’t hear his response, but that doesn’t matter. Gwenllian surely has a Kalkstein's dispatcher too. The moment she recovers, she’ll follow them.

Up ahead of them, Yennefer has stopped. She’s waving her arms in fluid, circular gestures, her palms beginning to glow as she does so. Suddenly, she forces her hands down into the earth. And from where she touches, a huge beam of light shoots up into the sky.

She begins to say something, but he can’t hear her at this distance. He catches up with her.

“What did you say?” He has to speak loudly himself, to hear his own voice.

“That should catch the attention of the Nilfgaardians.” She shouts to him. “They’ll come to investigate. It will help provide some distraction.” She frowns. “Can you hear me all right?”

“I think my ears are buggered.” He explains succinctly. “We need to get out of here.”

However, behind him, Ameer promptly collapses to the ground on his hands and knees. He’s breathing hard, arms shaking in fatigue. He tries to say something that Regis doesn’t hear, but he doesn’t need to hear him to understand what’s happened. Constantly hiding them from the throngs of gang members in those caves, concealing the very noise of the stone slab opening up when they crept inside, he must have created far more illusions than he did his entire time in Skellige being shackled with dimeritium. Being knocked off his feet by a thrown vampire, hitting his head, was most likely the last straw, and the Pale Widow that distracted Gwenllian his last reserve of his already weakened energy from the dimeritium. To put it simply, he’s now spent.

Yennefer kneels down by him, checking first his wound, then checking the medallion. Gods, the medallion. In his frantic desperation to stop Gwenllian, he’d almost forgotten, and he curses himself viciously for doing so. But miraculously, it looks unbroken, unharmed. So Geralt’s soul is safe. He supposes a witcher’s medallion must be built sturdily, so it may withstand its user being knocked about by drowners and fiends alike.

“He hid us from that big group of people.” Yennefer shouts at Regis to be heard. “One even crashed into me, but he kept us hidden. He needs to rest.”

“Say no more.” He kneels down, his healing wounds protesting at the movement. Yennefer helps Ameer climb onto his back, and Regis stands up, carrying him this way. No matter his pride, Ameer does not protest.

“So she’s a higher vampire?” Yennefer shouts as they walk. “How did she hide that from you?”

“She used floral oils – a lot of them. I didn’t smell her true scent.” His wounds are aching thanks to the strain and extra weight of carrying Ameer. “And that wound on her neck…Self-inflicted to throw me off, I think.” Though he still has no idea how she's doing that.

“She knows who killed Parviz. She was there at the scene.”

“Interrogating her is out of the question. It’s far too dangerous.”

“I know. But Bedlam knows too. We need to get away, catch our breath, and then plan from there.” Yennefer shouts to him.

“He’ll know we’re coming. The second he sees us, he’ll attack.”

“We’ll figure something out. We have to. The real murderer – Panther – is the only one who might know where Tye went.”

Reaching the woods slows their pace. Carrying Ameer on his back makes it harder to trek through the undergrowth, and he has to take extra care not to trip up on roots or brambles. Overhead, he sees Tatanu cawing, hopping between branches. Regis can’t understand him entirely, but he can sense the confusion, concern and urgency in the young raven.

Tiredly, Ameer taps him on the shoulder and speaks loudly in Regis’s ear so he can understand. “I hear someone coming.”

Gritting his teeth, Regis quickens his pace. The wound on his chest has opened up again, and he can feel the blood dripping down his front. He doesn’t dare slow.

But no matter how fast he tries to walk, he can tell it’s no use. Ameer keeps looking over his shoulder nervously, and Tatanu flies frantically back and forth, urging them to hurry up. Their pursuer is obviously getting closer, and Regis can safely bet on who it might be.

This isn’t going to work. Walking like this is too slow. “Yennefer, take Ameer and teleport away. We’re going to get caught.”

Yennefer’s face tightens. Wordlessly, she grabs Regis’s arm and leads him sharply down a path to the left. Branches whip his face as he walks, unable to push them out the way. Up ahead, he sees an old hut, abandoned and overgrown with weeds. Age has rendered it unstable, the roof sagging in from damp, moss and mould. Yennefer drags him towards it, startling moths and midges as she pushes through the plants. The inside is not faring any better, though without sunlight the plants breaking through the floorboards are short and stinted. There is nothing to hide behind, no convenient debris or furniture that hasn’t rotted into pieces, so Yennefer simply drags them to the corner of the house furthest from the door.

“Stop saying such things. Too late to teleport anyway.” She says into his ear, her only explanation.

And he soon realises what she means. Moments later, he hears a Nilfgaardian accented voice. And when he looks through the windows, what are now just holes in the wall with no glass, he spots Gwenllian. Her clothes are stained with blood from their fight, and she looks furious.

“Where are you?” She shouts. “I saw you walking. I can smell your blood. Come out!”

Yennefer tenses, her fingers twitching, as if mentally preparing a spell. Ameer’s grip around Regis tightens, his nails digging into him. Regis inhales deeply, trying to hurry the pain of his wounds away. He could still need to fight.

Gwenllian treks through bushes, her eyes searching across the undergrowth. “Where are you?”

Tatanu swoops down, pecking at her head and cawing ferociously. Her face changes and she hisses, lashing out at him with her claws. Regis’s battered heart races, but the raven manages to avoid her swipes, flying hurriedly out of her way to safety.

“You are here, I know it! Show yourself!”

“Yennefer, teleport away!” He whispers. But he also knows it will instantly give away their position. Gwenllian will spot him. Either they’ll fight, or he’ll flee – and she’ll probably pursue. After that, it will become a competition of stamina. Who will get tired first and have to stop, and who will have enough energy to land the fatal blow.

Yennefer remains still, biting her lip, flexing her fingers. Watching, waiting.

Gwenllian comes closer, her eyes intensely on the house. No, go away! This time, Tatanu isn’t there to try and fend her off, wisely staying away from her claws. She’s getting too close. Regis makes up his mind. He’ll distract her, lead her away from them.

She opens the door, and looks straight at them.

Regis freezes. It’s too late. She’s found them. He has to fight, now.

But she doesn’t move. Her gaze travels over them, frustrated. Not reacting, not seeing…

Ameer. Of course. Regis glances at him, sees his face wrought with concentration, battling against his fatigue and magical exhaustion.

Suddenly, Gwenllian turns away, staring out of the house and into the distance. She looks back in frustration at the house one last time, scowls, then turns into blue smoke and leaves the clearing. Moments later, a man in black armour holding a torch runs into Regis’s line of sight. On his breast plate, a yellow sun. A Nilfgaardian soldier.

He looks inside the house, the light from the torches illuminating rotten floorboards and making spiders scuttle from the brightness. Despite his Nilfgaardian armour, he speaks Common with a Redanian accent. “There’s no one here!” He shouts back to some unseen comrade. “Whoever it was, they fled!”

“The captain says he can see a cave! Near to where that light was! We might have found something!”

The soldier leaves, and Regis exhales in relief. Yennefer sighs, too.

“I thought they’d come quickly, with so many of them stationed in Oxenfurt, but I wasn’t sure.” She explains. “Thank goodness they arrived when they did.”

“And thank goodness they didn’t see us, either.” Regis adds. “Otherwise, I have a hunch that we might’ve been incriminated in this drug dealing affair.” He’s heard many a tale of the unpleasant conditions of Nilfgaardian prisons. Even as a vampire, he wouldn’t want to spend any time in one.

However, Ameer has no words of relief. He simply faints, his final illusion just one too many. Regis catches him before his head hits the floor and aggravates the wound further.

Well, shit. “Ameer?” Regis gently pats his cheek, trying to illicit a reaction. Ameer doesn’t stir. The head wound is bleeding profusely, as head wounds are wont to do. Regis can smell it strongly, an unusual scent he has never smelt before. A trace of Aen Siedhe, a trace of desert fox like Gwenllian said, and a stronger scent, one entirely new to him that he can only guess is the smell of a vulpess. Holding Ameer in the crook of his arm, he awkwardly tries to wipes away some of the blood with his sleeve. Unsuccessfully.

“Yennefer, help me.”

She kneels down by him, pressing a wad of cloth against the wound to try and stifle the flow. Only when the blood flow begins to lessen does she lift the pressure.

“Aguaras have faster healing processes than humans and elves, but we still need to treat this quickly. Can you carry him back?” Yennefer asks, checking the wound again.

“Of course.” His body is still tired – his neck in particular aches dreadfully – but he doesn’t tell her this.

“Good. I’ll try and make sure we avoid any more troops.” Regis puts on Ameer’s cloak, to hide the blood on his clothes, and Yennefer helps position Ameer on Regis’s back, then takes the lead. She hesitates by the door handle.

“Regis.” She looks back at him. “Don’t tell me to run away again.”

“Pardon?” He frowns, puzzled.

“No more trying to get myself and Ameer to flee while you face certain death. That vampire could have killed you. In fact, she almost did.”

“I had it all under control.” He protests, louder than he wanted because of his ears.

“No, you didn’t.” Yennefer replies coolly. “She was biting down on your neck. If she had reached your carotid, or whatever vampire equivalent you have, she’d have killed you. The only reason you’re not dead is because Ameer cast that illusion, and I cast that lightning.”

“Again, I assure you, I had the situation under control.” It’s a bold-faced lie, but he tells it nonetheless.

Yennefer shakes her head. “If you want to insist that, fine. And most of the time, I’ll believe you. But when you’re clearly struggling to fight back against an opponent who can clearly incapacitate you, if not kill you, then we will stay and we will help you and I won’t hear another word of this foolishness.”

“How is it foolishness to want the two members of this party who are vulnerable to fatal wounds to flee, and allow the only member with immortality to fight the threat?” He responds tartly.

“We both know your immortality has limits.” Yennefer’s voice, what he can hear of it, is just as curt. “Unless you’ve forgotten what happened with Vilgefortz.”

A step too far. “I haven’t forgotten. In fact, I seem to remember that I was in the process of stopping you from getting murdered when Vilgefortz indisposed me. You were too weak to fight him off. Had I not arrived when I did, you’d be dead.”

“Do you know how long I was imprisoned there?” Yennefer shoots back, her voice sharp and enraged. “How long he tortured me for? When he fought me, I was exhausted from what I went through. Yet he defeated you in moments, upon your first encounter.”

“Vilgefortz was a fluke.” He says heatedly. “He simply took me by surprise. If I’d known what weapons and magic he was wielding, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“But it did. Because you _didn’t_ know. Just how you didn’t know Gwenllian was a vampire. And she could have killed you.”

“You didn’t know she was a vampire either. Had she decided to kill you, you would have been dead before you even realised what happened. Between the two of us, I’m the only one who stood a chance.”

“There’s a difference between being strategical, and being stupidly and unnecessarily noble at your own cost.”

“And yet, if I hadn’t been _unnecessarily noble,_ you wouldn’t be here, would you? And I wouldn’t have been melted into a pillar.”

Yennefer’s face darkens, her violet eyes stormy with anger. A low blow, he admits himself, one he shouldn’t have brought up. Too far. But he’s too offended by her statements to care.

A tense silence hangs in the air, fuelled by hostility. Perhaps it is a good job Ameer is unconscious right now, so he doesn’t have to witness the glare the two are sharing.

“…We should leave.” Yennefer says at last. “Follow my path. We’ll return to the Alchemy Inn.”

“Yes. Please, lead the way.” Their forced pleasantries somehow make the exchange feel even more tense. And Regis finds himself feeling…sad. Disappointed. He and Yennefer were getting along, opening up to each other. Now, they’re both enraged with each other.

And so, without another word to one another, Yennefer leads him out of the house and through the forest, only speaking to give him directions, to avoid the Nilfgaardian troops. Fighting a vampire, not identifying Parviz’s killer, and now having a quarrel with Yennefer…this is not how Regis wanted this encounter to go.

But it could have been worse. Gwenllian could have killed him.

He’ll never admit just how close she had been to committing the deed to Yennefer, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the vampire language off of Etruscan, which seemed to be the closest language I could find to what they speak in the games (just my luck, since it's an extremely old language without many resources left on how to speak it).  
Gwenllian says "Flowers. I love flowers."  
Regis says "Herbs. I use herbs like you do."  
Did you manage to guess that Gwenllian was a higher vampire? Did you think she was something else? I'm curious to know!


	17. Strategies and Stubbornness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating! My course has been super busy D:  
Also book spoilers as always

_“The full list of Margarita Laux-Antille's outstanding mental, spiritual and physical attributes would consume a mountain of parchment. Rita, as her friends called her, once held the position of rector at the Aretuza Academy for Sorceresses on the Isle of Thanedd - the same school attended by her famous ancestor, Ilona Laux-Antille._

_Quite unusually for one of her profession, Margarita showed no interest in politics - it was only care for the good of her school that led her to join the Lodge of Sorceresses_.” _– Dandelion on Margarita Laux-Antille_

The argument is still heavy in the air as Regis carries Ameer out of the forest and back on the road to Oxenfurt, relying on Yennefer to guide him on a safe path while his ears heal.

Without his hearing, he can’t perceive the noises of Nilfgaardian soldiers trudging through the undergrowth, so Yennefer helps them avoid the oncoming troops. Arriving back on the road with the Novigrad gate in the distance is a relief, but Regis does not allow himself to relax just yet. Only when they have passed through the gate where only one soldier stands guard, having been abandoned by his comrades to go search the forest, does Regis begin to feel reassurance.

He’s getting tired, though, as they walk the streets of Oxenfurt. Ameer may be thin, but he’s also tall, and Regis’s legs and back are beginning to ache from carrying him. There aren’t many passing citizens, but those on the streets leaving taverns after a night of drinking, gambling and gwent playing – probably all at the same time – give them strange looks as they pass. Thanks to the raven cloak he wears, none can see his bloodied and torn clothes, though the sight of Ameer unconscious and being carried is enough to catch most people’s eye.

However, no one asks what is wrong; no one seems to care why the elf is unconscious, or ask about the blood running down his face. Their lack of interest and empathy certainly isn’t admirable, but in this occasion it works in their favour. Regis is too tired to start thinking of excuses as to how Ameer became injured. Besides, it's best they don't look too closely; Ameer's appearance has taken on its fox-like tinge of ears and fangs. They've tried to hide it with Yennefer's cloak, but it would only take one nosy drunkard or observant soldier to notice something wasn't quite right. Fortunately, no one notices, but they’re not entirely undisturbed on their journey back to the Alchemy. Some drunken idiots whistle at Yennefer and shout crude remarks, but the icy stare they gain in return is almost enough to sober them up.

At long last, they reach the Alchemy, trudge up that last set of stairs, and enter their room. Regis sighs with relief when he steps in – it feels so long ago since they left.

Yennefer, however, does not. “I’m going to stand on guard. Bedlam could know we’re staying here.” She closes the door tightly, dragging the table in front of it. Regis doubts Bedlam would start a brawl with plenty of innocent witnesses around, and he’s probably more preoccupied with escaping the Nilfgaardian affront, but needless, it would be foolhardy not to be cautious. After all, he could easily send an assassin after them.

Regis carefully deposits Ameer onto the bed, lying him on his side. The wound is bleeding gently, but is beginning to scab over.

“Ameer?” Regis pats him gently on the shoulder, speaking into his ear. “Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”

In response, Ameer frowns and clutches his head, groaning. A good sign of his gradual return to consciousness.

“I’ll tend to his wound.” Regis places his bag on the bed and begins sorting through the contents. 

“What about yours? Do you need treatment?” She asks sharply, not much genuine concern in her voice.

“No. All’s well.” This is not a false reassurance. The fight was difficult, and deadlier than he’d like to admit, but his body now shows no evidence of it. His wounds are fully healed now, and even his hearing has been steadily returning, changing from silence and high-pitched ringing to muted noise, and then full clarity. In fact, his clothes are the real victim in comparison. They do not have the ability to mend themselves as he does, and so they remain drenched in blood and torn at his chest.

“What about you?” He asks. “Are you hurt?”

“No. I got out unscathed.” Those gang members certainly proved no match for her.

Taking another look at the medallion, Regis sees it to be unscathed, too. When he crashed into Ameer, and Ameer fell on his front, what if it had been shattered? He was too slow, too unprepared for Gwenllian’s attack, and that mistake could have destroyed Geralt’s soul beyond repair.

No, there’s no point thinking about tragedies that never happened. Better to save his energy for when such events actually happen. And he has no intention of making a mistake like that again.

Taking out bandages and a cloth, he mops up the remaining blood from Ameer’s forehead. Again, Ameer groans, though his eyes remain closed.

“I suppose I should ask what are next plan of action is.” He washes out the cloth. “Gwenllian and Bedlam both know who the murderer is, someone they call 'panther'.”

“I hope you’re not planning to go confront her or something equally foolish, are you?”

“She caught me off guard –”

“The moment she sees you, she’ll attack you." Yennefer interrupts. "It’s out of the question, and we have a far better alternative. For starters, Bedlam won’t be able to permanently kill you.”

“Gwenllian is loyal to Bedlam; she feels that she owes him. I can guarantee she’ll be helping Bedlam hide from the Nilfgaardians, and guarding him from us. So if Gwenllian is out of the question, so is Bedlam.”

Yennefer frowns, and turns away. She walks to her bags and begins sorting through them, taking out apparatus and crystals. When she starts screwing the crystals into the apparatus, he realises she’s setting up a megascope. Why? Is there someone she wishes to contact? She doesn’t deign to tell Regis what exactly she is planning, but in a sudden and admittedly immature fit of pride, he refuses to ask her. Instead, he looks into his own bags for a small vial of medicinal alcohol. He pours some onto a cloth and begins dabbing the wound.

On the bed, Ameer flinches from Regis’s touch, weakly trying to push away his hand as the herbs sting his wound. “Ow…”

He’s coming around. Good. “Stay still. I need to make sure the wound is fully clean.”

However, Ameer is not being a good patient. Even in his weakened state, he grabs Regis’s wrist and tries to force it away. But a barely conscious vulpess is no match for a vampire at full strength – Regis gently pries his hand away and continues until he’s certain the wound has been fully cleaned. Regardless, Regis is pleased at the movement. If Ameer can move, then the head wound isn’t too severe. 

Now, he takes out some herbs. A few yarrow petals and finely crushed garlic should do nicely. He mashes them into a paste, adds a minute splash of water, and then carefully rubs the sticky substance onto Ameer’s wound.

This must not sting as much, for Ameer doesn’t try to bat away his hand. He only whimpers faintly, and mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“…Eoin…”

Who’s Eoin? “This is Regis.”

Ameer frowns, and blearily opens his eyes. He looks around himself in confusion, then stares at Regis with a puzzled gaze. “…Where am I?”

“We’re back in the Alchemy Inn.” Regis washes his hands of the petal mash, and takes out a roll of bandages.

Gritting his teeth, Ameer laboriously sits up. He gingerly touches the wound, some of the paste coming off on his fingers. “What happened?”

“You hid us from Gwenllian long enough for the Nilfgaardian soldiers to arrive and force her to flee. Do you remember?”

Ameer closes his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck as he thinks. “…Yes…Yes, I remember…” As he remembers, he becomes more alert. “Bedlam knows the identity of the killer. We need to find him and confront him.”

“Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous – Gwenllian will be with him.” Regis says firmly.

“I can hide us. Gwenllian will not be able to see us.” Ameer insists.

“You collapsed barely an hour ago, and your head has only just stopped bleeding.” Regis crosses his arms. “You’re in no shape to be conjuring such illusions.”

“I am fine.”

“Then prove it.” He suggests. “Hide yourself and leave this room without us noticing.”

“Fine.” Ameer closes his eyes, face taut in concentration. A moment later, he vanishes.

And another moment later, he reappears again on the floor. His head wound is bleeding again.

“Ow…”

Regis sighs, and carefully helps him to his feet. “Look, you’ve aggravated your wound. Sit back down.”

“But they could get away. The longer we delay –”

“Bedlam won’t flee the city immediately.” Yennefer speaks up. “There are still plenty of assets he needs to gather, so his operation doesn’t go entirely up in flames. We have time to recuperate from that altercation before we go after him.”

“But we won’t be going after him.” Regis repeats, more irritated than the last time, as he mops up the blood again. “Gwenllian will be with him, and like I said, that’s far too dangerous. She could kill the two of you in an instant.”

“And she could kill you too.” Yennefer, too, sounds increasingly scathing in her tone. “So if it’s too dangerous for us, then it’s too dangerous for you as well.”

The air in the room becomes even icier and unwelcoming. Ameer frowns, glancing between them with a confused expression.

“…Has…something happened?” He asks tentatively.

“No.” Regis positions Ameer’s head carefully and begins wrapping around the bandage.

“Are you sure?”

“I need you to sit still, please. Try not to talk.”

Ameer purses his lips, but says nothing. This time, he sits patiently as Regis fastens the bandage, occasionally glancing between Yennefer’s work, and the bloodied mess on Regis’s chest.

“…I apologise for fainting.” He says at last, once Regis has finished fastening the bandages. “It seems I am still…out of practice. More than a year ago, it would not have been a problem. But I did not realise how quickly I would become exhausted. So, I apologise for fainting like that.”

“No need to fret.” Regis takes out a strip of bandage from his bag and begins wrapping it around Ameer’s forehead to cover the wound. “If anything, I should be the one to apologise, for crashing into you like that. Now, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.” Ameer isn’t paying attention to Regis’s fingers, though. He stares once more at Regis’s bloodied chest. His expression is unreadable.

“…Did it hurt?” He asks softly. “When she impaled you?”

“No.”

“You are lying.” Not an accusation. Just quiet fact.

“I’ve been in more than my fair share of fights. And I’ve felt worse than that, trust me.”

“But it did hurt.”

“…Well, yes, I suppose it did. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. No reason.” He won’t match Regis’s gaze. “I am just…surprised, I suppose. That you would subject yourself to such pain.”

“Surprised? Why are you surprised? I wasn’t going to let her hurt you.”

“I know.” He looks down at his hands. “I know.”

“I’m all better now.” Maybe he’s worried? Regis tries to sound reassuring. “I’m not in pain anymore.”

He takes off his overcoat and carefully parts some of the shredded fabric of his clothes, revealing the blood-stained but perfectly intact skin of his sternum. “See? It’s all better now.”

Ameer looks where he points, head tilting both inquisitively and uneasily. Slowly, with a hesitant hand and unnerved expression, he reaches out towards the former wound. At the last second, though, he withdraws his hand away.

“Sorry. I…We are fast healers, but even we Fox Mothers could not achieve something like this.”

“It is shocking for those seeing it for the first time.”

“…I suppose…I always knew you were capable of such regeneration, but…I never realised just how extensive that was until now.” There’s some strange mixture of admiration and apprehension in his voice.

“Are you frightened?” Regis asks with more directness than he intended.

“No.” He hesitates. “Not now. I was a little frightened before. Seeing you like that, seeing you hurt like that…it was frightening.”

“Oh. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Ameer scowls, folding his arms indignantly. “Please. I am not a child, and I am not frightened now!”

“No?”

“No. Besides,” he smiles mischievously, “you are still the same bug-eating vampire as before, yes? Even with sharper teeth and an arm sticking through your chest. Actually, I am certain I heard your stomach growling when I created that giant centipede!”

Well, his sense of humour certainly hasn’t been damaged by the blow to his head. That’s good.

“I must admit, though, I am impressed. To see the regenerative nature of vampires in person…I never thought I would witness it for myself. It really looks as if nothing happened.” He smiles – a genuine smile, but with some odd hint of sadness to it. “…Thank you. For protecting me.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” Not just because Regis would obviously allow his immortal body to take the hit, but because he doesn’t want Yennefer to get irritated, doesn’t want Ameer to inadvertently involve himself in this argument. So he quickly changes the topic. “May I ask, who’s Eoin?”

Ameer looks at him in surprise. “Where did you hear that name?”

“From you. While you were just coming round, you muttered it.”

“…I see.” Ameer hesitates for a long time before speaking. “Eoin was a man from Skellige.”

Of course, Skellige. Regis should have guessed.

“Eoin was…How should I put this…He seemed to be somewhat low in the hierarchy of Carrik’s castle. Not very strong like the other warriors were. But he was smart, and he was the only one who showed kindness to me. He would fix up my wounds and look after me when I was hurt. I must have thought you were him.”

The man wasn’t kind enough to help Ameer escape though, Regis thinks to himself. When a human is already low in the imposed caste system of a society or group, they often don’t try to interact with those even lower than themselves, in fear of stigmatising themselves further.

“I know what you are thinking.” Ameer guesses his thoughts. “I suppose treating my wounds does not seem like much in hindsight, but compared to everyone else, it was a lot.”

“Were you friends?” Regis asks.

“I had no friends there.” Ameer says bluntly. “None. Eoin simply was the least terrible. He never hit me, he treated my wounds and was much kinder than the others, but...he was not my friend. He was a strange man – paranoid, quiet, unsure of himself. He did not like Carrik, but he never stood up to him. And he was always writing in a book.”

“Writing in a book?”

“Yes. What, I am not sure. Carrik was not one who cared much for biographies or history. But I never asked, and he never told me. Then, one day, he went on a hunting trip with Carrik. He was killed. They never told me what exactly happened to him, just that he was dead. I assume he was attacked by an animal.” He shakes his head. “They did not even give him a proper funeral – even with all their talk of honour and tradition. But I have spoken about Skellige enough now.” He promptly changes the conversation. “What are you doing, Yennefer?” He asks instead.

“I need to talk to someone. Ask for advice about what to do.” She tells him.

“Who? Another sorceress?”

“Yes. Her name is Margarita Laux-Antille, of Aretuza fame.” Yennefer explains. “I believe she may be able to help us with this situation.”

“Why is that?”

“You’ll see. I ask you to stay out of sight and don’t speak, though. Rita is an old friend of mine, and the one I trust most out of the current Lodge, but I think it would be better to keep my company and its members on a strict need-to-know basis. Especially since your identities need to be kept a secret.” She stands in front of the crystals, arranged in a circle, and casts a spell.

A vision, made of ethereal blue light, erupts between the crystals as they spark with energy. A moment later, the visage of a woman appears. Her curly hair sits by her shoulders, and she wears a night gown and a woollen cardigan to keep herself warm. Even with the distortion of the megascope, Regis can still tell the woman is exceedingly beautiful.

“…Yennefer?” The woman sounds surprised.

“Greetings, Rita. I’m pleased to see you’re in good health.”

“Goodness, it’s been a while.” Rita, as Yennefer dubs her, smiles. “I’d heard you retired down to Toussaint – lovely place.”

“And I hear that Aretuza is almost ready to start a new curriculum again. You have my congratulations.”

“Thank you. Though I assume you didn’t contact me for a catch up at this hour.”

Yennefer smiles. “Glad to see you’re astute as ever. You’re right. I need help, regarding a Nilfgaardian problem.”

“Nilfgaardian?” Rita sounds surprised.

“Yes. Two of Geralt’s friends have been arrested for a murder they didn’t commit in Novigrad. I’m currently investigating, to save them from the gallows.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t know how I can help. Although I still remain a member of the Lodge, my involvement with it remains limited since we fought against the Wild Hunt. I’ve withdrawn myself from politics to devote myself entirely back to the rebuilding of Aretuza. Not that the Lodge has much political clout nowadays anyway. Everyone’s busy reaffirming their lost statuses before they even consider acting on behalf of the Lodge.”

“Not to worry. I’m not asking you to strike up some deal with the Nilfgaardians. I’m simply asking for advice.”

“Again, I’d question as to why you’re asking me. Fringilla herself is Nilfgaardian, and Philippa is currently Emhyr’s advisor. In fact, you even worked with Emhyr for some time. I don’t have much knowledge of the Nilfgaardian workings myself.”

“You know enough. When Emhyr won the third war, I know he supplied funds for Aretuza to be rebuilt. I also know you had to do lots of negotiating with him to keep yourself as rector, and to retain full control over the school’s curriculum. You’ve had enough interactions with the Nilfgaardians to give me the advice I need. In regards to myself, our arrangement had nothing to do with politics. We only worked together to find Ciri, and since Emhyr believes her to be dead, I’m sure his ruling has taken on new, different priorities I wasn’t aware of. Besides, Fringilla is in the heart of Nilfgaard, so I’d doubt she’d have much influence over what happens in an outer territory. And Philippa…” Yennefer’s face darkens. “I cannot ask Philippa. I will not. You know why.”

Rita’s face tightens, almost with guilt, and she nods. “…I understand. Please, tell me what it is you need to know.”

“We have reason to believe that a drug dealer in charge of a smuggling operation in the city knows the identity of the real murderer – and that murderer knows something very important, something we desperately need to know for ourselves. Unfortunately, the drug dealer in question has some very powerful protection.”

“Powerful enough that even you couldn’t get past it?” Rita asks.

“Yes. That powerful. However, we have an upper hand. We know the identity of this drug dealer and his associates. We could blackmail him, with the details of his drug ring, into giving us the identity of the murderer – but any attempt to reach him, to meet him, could result in our deaths.” No doubt at the hand of Gwenllian. “Is there any way we could utilise the Nilfgaardian soldiers in Novigrad to help us in some way?”

Rita thinks about it. “I wouldn’t tell them the identity of this drug dealer straight away. The likelihood is, they’ll pursue him themselves without involving you at all. If they catch him, they won’t let you question him.”

“And he wouldn’t tell us anyway, just to spite us for resulting in his capture.” Yennefer remarks.

Rita paces back and forth. “…A drug ring is an enticing bargaining chip for the Nilfgaardians. If you go to them, tell them you have important information about the ring leader, but leave out his actual identity, they might be willing to provide you with some soldiers to go with you to confront the drug dealer in return. At the very least, that might prevent this powerful drug dealer from killing you. Murdering some sorceress is one thing, but murdering Nilfgaardian soldiers has a far worse punishment.”

Yennefer considers this. “My only concern is, Nilfgaardians aren’t well known for being co-operative, and more for being ruthless. Suppose they simply refuse that deal, lock me up, torture the information out of me, and then arrest me for supposedly conspiring with these drug dealers?”

“A fair point.” Rita frowns in thought. “Perhaps tell them that you know of someone who has information about this murder instead. Intriguing enough to warrant their attention, but not so intriguing they’ll start playing dirty. I've heard about the Oxenfurt protests; if word is spread around that the Nilfgaardians executed two innocent Redanians out of incompetence and stubbornness, these existing tensions would escalate further. The Nilfgaardians like to present an image of a mighty, with all its armies and espionage, but civil unrest in their outer territories is really the last thing they want right now. Even then, I can't guarantee they'll help, though. They may decide it’s not important enough to lend you some soldiers.”

“I suppose I’ll have to be persuasive, then. Thank you for the advice. Needless to say, I’m wary around the Nilfgaardians, and a second opinion is useful.”

“I’m glad I was able to help. Though…I should tell you. There’s a chance that Philippa may be in Novigrad.”

At this, Yennefer frowns, clearly troubled. “Why? I thought she would be in Vizima or Gors Velen.”

“She normally is. But I hear they’ve requested her help on something magic-related. Something about magical artefacts. I’m not entirely sure what. If you do run into her, tell her I’m asking a personal favour.”

“A personal favour?”

“As we assimilated into the new Nilfgaardian empire, and as the two remaining Northern sorceresses of the new lodge, we agreed to always be willing to help each other help. No more secrets, no more sorceresses stabbing each other in the back. Philippa was prone to that sort of trickery, but losing her eye sight and so many other sorceresses has…well, maybe not softened her, but she’s been humbled somewhat. So, tell her it’s a personal favour from me. She’ll leave you alone.”

“Thank you, Rita.”

Rita waves her hand dismissively. “It’s the least I can do, Yennefer. I owe you my very life. If not for you, I’d have been burnt at the stake by Radovid.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that, Rita.”

“But I do. So I will. Take care of yourself.”

“And you, Rita.”

The vision fizzles out. “That settles that, then. Tomorrow – or this morning – I’ll go to the Nilfgaardians, try to convince them to lend us some soldiers before we confront Bedlam.” She begins to put away the crystals.

“I’m still not particularly fond of this idea. By which I mean, I think it’s riddled with danger.” Regis protests. “Gwenllian cares little for the Nilfgaardian soldiers. The moment you arrive, she could easily kill them and you without a second thought.”

“But Bedlam is careful. If he has managed to evade being caught or identified by the Nilfgaardians so far, slaughtering their soldiers will only bring down a more intense wrath on him. He won’t want to be hasty.”

“But he won’t let you leave when he sees you, now that you know his identity and operation. He told Gwenllian to kill you in the caves.”

“I’ll make a deal with him.” Yennefer says simply.

Regis shakes his head. “Too risky. If you really want to go ahead with this plan, then I will go with you. End of story.”

Yennefer purses her lips, and says nothing. Ameer watches them both carefully.

“…Tell me, Yennefer. What is the lodge?” He asks, once more cutting into the tension and dragging the conversation into a less awkward realm.

“The Lodge of Sorceresses.” She diverts her stare away from Regis. “During the second Nilfgaardian war, a group of sorceresses decided they needed to create a secret group. It claimed to be created solely for the protection of magic in this world. It was founded by Philippa Eilhart, Margarita Laux-Antille, Triss Merigold, Keira Metz, Sabrina Glevissig, Sheala de Tancarville, Francesca Findabair, and Assire var Anahid. Later, three more members were invited: Fringilla Vigo, invited by Assire; Ida Emean Aep Sivney and myself, invited by Francesca. Well.” Yennefer frowns. “I say invited. Forced is perhaps the correct term in regards to myself. I never had any interest in joining the Lodge, and when their plans began to involve Ciri, turned to manipulating her, I only resisted them further.”

“I see. And they were secret?” Ameer asks.

“Yes. Though not for long. Supposedly they helped bring peace, though most of their reports are heavily edited, and their goals drifted from protecting magic to interfering with politics. Then they were framed by Nilfgaard for killing northern kings, though one death they did happen to order themselves. After that, the Lodge was sentenced to death. Assire was killed for her association with the Lodge by Nilfgaard, seen as treason. Sabrina was killed some years before that by King Henselt for supposed war crimes. I’m not sure how much truth there is on that matter. I was…removed from politics at that time, so all I’ve heard are stories. During the witch hunts, Sheala was imprisoned and died from her wounds. Francesca and Ida have retreated to their own realms, and have refused to involve themselves with any more matters on the Lodge. Keira left and has been doing some rather successful trials for the Catriona plague. Triss now resides in Kovir as royal advisor. The Lodge has dwindled down to three members: Philippa, Rita and Fringilla. Though, Philippa will certainly start recruiting as the mage population begins to recover from Radovid’s purge.”

Ameer nods slowly as he takes all this information in, and though the exact details of the Lodge is largely new to Regis, it doesn’t surprise him. In particular, the identity of one member: Fringilla Vigo. He remembers the Nilfgaardian woman who shared a romance with Geralt on their search for Ciri, a woman who was most insistent on Geralt staying in Toussaint and who did not get along with Regis at all. Now, he realises she was trying to prevent Geralt from finding Ciri so that the Lodge could find her first. No wonder Yennefer resisted them so fiercely.

“So, I decided to speak to Margarita. Out of all the sorceresses left in the Lodge, she is certainly the most trustworthy.” She tilts her head. “I don’t remember you mentioning any such groups in Ofier. Is that correct?”

“There are many mages in Ofier, but I do not know of any such societies.” Ameer explains. “Not any secret organisation, anyway. For example, those who live in the mountains often have councils of mages, but those are focused entirely on religion, not politics or ruling. And there is no school like you have in your northern kingdoms. Those born with the gift of magic tend to learn through apprenticeships rather than classrooms.” He frowns thoughtfully. “I think mages are more…competitive in Ofier. Cutthroat. Outside of work, they get along well enough, but I think some sort of Ofieri Lodge would not end very well.”

“But doesn’t banding together give some sense of safety from those ill-disposed towards magic?” Regis asks. “There’s security in numbers, after all.”

“Well, we are less suspicious of magic users than Northerners.” Ameer frowns. “There is still distrust and dislike towards inherently magical creatures, those who are neither humans nor of the elder races. And mages are held accountable if they make mistakes – held _very _accountable. But we have not had a ‘purge against mages’ like this Radovid you talk of in many hundreds of years, not since during the Dark Times.”

Yennefer says nothing at this, but her face looks bitter.

Ameer peers at Regis’s clothes. “Your clothes are very bloody. We should wash them and fix them.”

“I’m afraid they might be beyond fixing.” Regis laments. “I’ve washed out blood, and fixed many tears, but Gwenllian was too enthusiastic with her claws to succeed in fixing this, I’d wager.” 

“If we wash them to get the blood out, then we can fix the tears with magic. When you live in the mountains and you kill animals to eat, you are used to washing blood out of clothes. Just give me two rocks and some hot water.”

Regis hesitates, and glances at Yennefer. She packs up her megascope, pointedly ignoring their conversation. He doesn’t particularly want to undress in front of her, but neither does he want to remain in such tattered clothing.

“Well, if you insist. I suppose we can at least try.” He reasons.

Ameer fills up a basin with cold water, moving slowly and carefully, his wound still tender. Thankfully, only his tunic and overcoat are damaged from the fight, so Regis does not need to get fully undressed. Still, he’s overcome with an irrational embarrassment. It’s not something he feels particularly often, but he feels acutely vulnerable, and despises doing so in front of someone he has argued with so viciously. Yennefer pays no attention, though. Having put away her megascope, she simply sits in front of the door, watching it closely, preparing herself for an assassin paid by Bedlam to come storming through.

Ameer, meanwhile, gets to work helping Regis fix his clothes. He gives Regis his beautiful raven-feathered cloak, which Regis is grateful for, allowing him to feel less vulnerable. Together, they soak the clothes in hot water, which is slowly turning pink. Regis fetches two rocks from outside - looking out for assassins as he does so, though he sees none - and Ameer uses them to scrub away at the stains. The water turns darker and darker as he does so, though his pace is slow; no doubt he's cautious about aggravating his wound. Regis helps him, and is able to work at a much faster rate. As they work, Ameer hums, that little tune he likes to hum so often. But the work is long and tedious, so he hums different songs – though Regis still doesn’t recognise any of them. The water becomes darker and darker still, and they exchange it for a fresher batch. Even so, Regis’s hands are stained pink by the time most of the blood is gone.

“Do you like to sing?” Regis asks as they get rid of the last splotches of blood.

Ameer tilts his head. “We have much music in Ofier, many hymns to our creators, songs that tell our story of the world and the creation of our land. We elves too have many stories, though they are more tragic. Tales of loss and war at the hands of humans. Even the happy ones, the songs about past kingdoms and beautiful lands, are sad, for they remind the Aen Seidhe of what is no more. And we aguara…We have music. But it is music you would not understand.” He empties the water basin and drapes the clothes on the side to dry. “You are from a different world, and I have heard vampires have their own language. Do you have music?”

“We do.” Regis confirms. “Songs about the world from which we came. Songs about historical figures, old kingdoms, the weariness of life, moving ballads and simple working songs alike. But…they describe a time unfamiliar to me, one I neither recognise nor know much about. Only the knowledge of our tribes, some details about their influences and the differences between the groups, are known to me.” He rummages around his bag until he finds a somewhat rusty needle and some thread. “Their history, their culture, have all but vanished as my race entered this world. Lost as the tribes scattered throughout the continents, faded over generations and as we tried to adapt to the new land, became preoccupied with drinking blood, evading humans. All that is left, the faint traces of our culture, is through these songs listing unknown heroes and abridged battles.”

He threads the needle and cuts a long stretch of the thread, tying a knot at the very end. “Perhaps that is why I’ve always preferred the simple ones, about the toils and joys of life and the emotions of relationships, both romantic and familial, both the positives and negatives. Such matters are more relatable to me. Though I think most humans would find them strange, and with the exception of Bruxae songs, not particularly melodical. But you didn’t clarify – do you enjoy singing?”

Ameer hesitates. “…I did. My mother, my sisters and I, we would sing together many times. And when I assimilated myself into the culture of Ofieri humans and elves alike, I found myself finding joy in their music, so I sang. Now, I am not so sure. Singing became a chore, a punishment for me. And yet…they cannot cancel out those happy memories completely. I find myself at a stalemate. Do I love to sing and find it nostalgic, or do I hate it, and it reminds me of unhappy memories? So I compromise. I hum. No words, just the simple tune. As if I am…checking the water? To see how it makes me feel. If I am unhappy, then I stop.” He pauses. “Right now, I feel more happy than unhappy. And I am glad for that. I do not want good memories to be ruined.” He feels the clothes, then takes the tunic and drapes it over his lap. “I can see you have already sewn up small tears here and there. How is this?”

“I spend too much time trekking through cemeteries and foraging through bushes for herbs. Especially mandrakes.” Regis explains. “Sometimes, my clothes get torn on twigs or brambles. Admittedly, I don’t take as much care of my clothes as I should do.”

“I see. My mother told me the same. I was forever climbing up the slopes of the mountains, tumbling and scraping myself. I learnt to sew earlier than my sisters, for my mother became sick of fixing my clothes for me...I understand that you pick herbs to hide your scent and for medicine, but why mandrakes?”

“The mandrake has a far less practical purpose, admittedly. I use it to make snifters. Alcohol.” He clarifies when he sees Ameer’s confusion.

“Ah, I see.” He smiles. “I have heard stories of superstition about mandrake. Is it true that Northerners use iron rods and dogs to pull up the mandrake? They are afraid the plant will scream and kill them?”

“Yes, I’ve heard villagers claim that multiple times.” Regis says, amused. “As ludicrous as a plant being able to scream is, I suppose I can understand why mandrakes in particular are subject to such superstitions. The uncanny ability of the roots to grow into humanoid figures must be quite unnerving to folk.”

“I suppose that is true. Though, I still find that very funny.” He looks up. “Yennefer, do you remember when we were in Nilfgaard in the ambassador’s garden?”

Yennefer looks slightly alarmed to have suddenly been dragged into this conversation. She avoids looking at Regis. “…Yes, I do.”

“You see, someone had been stealing classified documents and ransoming them. The whole situation escalated into a terrible mess of conspiracy and back-stabbing. A patient of mine ended up getting murdered over it. We wanted to know who had stolen the documents, so we broke into the ambassador’s garden, to start laying a trap to catch the thief in the act. Some guards could hear us talking, though, and came to confront us. Of course, I hid us, but the guards were not stupid. They knew someone had been there.”

Despite the tense atmosphere, Yennefer looks amused. “It was very naughty of you, making the tree talk.”  
Ameer smiles sharply. “The guards began to attack the tree with their weapons, so frightened by this magic. When their supervisors came, saw them slashing at the trunk with a sword, claiming it had talked, they got a very harsh lecture about drinking on duty.”

“It was rather funny. Though not for the guards. I hear they didn’t touch a single drop of alcohol for the next three months.” The faintest of smiles lingers on her lips, for the briefest of seconds.

“Well, they should not have been drinking on duty anyway.” Ameer looks pleased to have gained some vaguely positive reaction from Yennefer, no matter how small that might be. Though his efforts to lighten the atmosphere will undoubtedly be in vain. The tension between Regis and Yennefer isn’t going to disappear anytime soon.

“What happened, then?” Regis asks regardless. “Who was stealing the classified documents?”

“The ambassador himself. He was a heavy gambler and desperate for money. Needless to say, the Nilfgaardians were not lenient in their punishment - or they planned not to be. I got to him first. Revenge for the death of my patient.” He says this nonchalantly. The casual vindictiveness of a Fox Mother.

While Regis sews up some of the smaller rips, Ameer examines the largest tear and closes his eyes. His fingertips begin to glow. “Rhoi'r gorau i'r dillad hyn!”

The cloth begins to glow. Then it moves, the torn edges crawling towards each other as if pulled on a string. When they reach, they glow even brighter. And when the light fades, Regis sees the tear has fixed itself, threads woven back together, fused as if they were never sliced in the first place.

“You know magic?” Regis asks, surprised.

“But of course.” Ameer touches the medallion gently. “How else would I have transferred his soul?”

“Ah, forgive me. That was a foolish question.” Somewhere in his head, he’d assumed that the Scaradh spell was simply within the repertoire of aguaras. That was a silly presumption, since they deal with illusions and bewitchment only. “May I ask, can all aguaras perform such magic? Outside of illusions and bewitchment?”

“No. If the elf who was taken could perform magic, then they can do magic – for a while. As they grow older, their magic abilities wane, and their illusory abilities grow stronger. But me, I have strong magic because I am not a true aguara. My illusions are not as powerful, but my own magic is stronger. My elven sister, who was my twin, became a very powerful sage called Sachi Bahjat.” He rubs his face. “But I am tired. Yennefer, may you help me?”

She hesitates. “Fine. If you’re tired.” She sits down, taking the clothes from him and sitting them on her lap. As she leans her head down to look, her hair falls over her shoulders and gets in her way.

Before she even has the chance to move her hair, Ameer sits behind her and gathers her hair back. He separates the raven curls into three groups, then plaits them together. "Here." He's eager to keep her mood neutral, then.

“Thank you.” She closes her eyes, and hovers over the next tear. “Rhoi'r gorau i'r dillad hyn.”

Once more, the clothes glow and begin to fix themselves. Ameer looks between Yennefer and Regis. When neither say anything, he looks uncomfortable.

“Did the soldiers speak to you on the way back?” He asks.

“No, we avoided them.” Regis answers briefly.

“Ah, I see.” A silence ensures, and a terribly awkward one at that.

Ameer attempts to ease the tension again. “You were always very good at magic, Yennefer.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you ever want to teach at the sorceress school you came from?”

“I considered it, but research ultimately interested me more.” She takes the overcoat and begins fixing that too, offering no more to the conversation. This time, Ameer does not try again.

“Here.” Yennefer passes the newly fixed overcoat and tunic to Regis.

“Thank you.” The clothes might as well be new – there’s no more trace of blood, and not a single tear. “And thank you Ameer.”

Ameer nods, though obviously disappointed and still confused at their sudden hostility. “It is no problem.”

-

Unfortunately, the harsh atmosphere doesn’t lessen, or at least soften, as time marches on. Regis is grateful to get changed, but Yennefer instantly demands that she take the first watch. Noticing Ameer’s troubled stare, he decides not to argue, and relents to her request.

But he cannot sleep. He lies, staring up at the ceiling while Yennefer watches the door. Ameer huddles next to him in his usual bid to steal as much warmth from Regis as he possibly can. Unlike Regis, he has fallen fast asleep, still fatigued from overexertion and the head wound. The medallion’s eyes are dull and empty. Maybe Geralt is sleeping, too.

Too many thoughts are racing in his mind, and no matter how he tries to distract himself, Regis cannot shake them. His argument with Yennefer takes up the forefront, stinging like an infected wound. The more he thinks on it, the more irritated and yet distressed he becomes. Can’t she see that he’s just trying to keep her safe? But somehow, she thinks that is her job. One slip up with Vilgefortz – albeit one that cost him dearly, yes, but one slip up all the same, and now she seems to think he’s weak. He never thought of himself as a particularly proud person, but the fact Yennefer seems to be basing her opinion of Regis on that horrid encounter upsets and frustrates him.

It’s not the only thought that troubles him, though. His fight with Gwenllian occupies a large portion of his thoughts, too. Not just how close he came to being killed by her, but that moment when she sank her teeth into his neck. When those memories flashed through him. A common phenomenon among those who have had near-death experiences. But feeling it himself once more has forced troubling questions into his mind.

What did Dettlaff see?

When Regis delivered the fatal blow. What did he experience? What memories and visions crossed his dying mind?

He hates to think about it, but the thought torments him. How aware was he? Geralt had just chopped his monstrous body to pieces, the flesh slowly trying to heal itself. He must’ve been in pain. So how aware was he of what was going on when Regis killed him? Did he understand what was happening, that his close friend was murdering him? And if he did, how did he feel? Angry? Betrayed? Did he regret helping Regis, reforming him from that ruined castle?

Beside him, Ameer jerks in his sleep, and his eyes open suddenly. Startled and confused, he looks around himself, but quickly realises where he is. Sighing, he rests his head back on the pillow. He glances at Regis, who is unable to avert his gaze quick enough.

“I am fine.” He insists before Regis can ask. True, he doesn’t seem frightened, just startled.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“No. I was back in that castle by the mountains. But Geralt was not there, so…I was curious.”

“Curious?”

“About the place I was in. I went to explore. I was walking along the stone walls, and I was overconfident. Some rock came loose beneath my feet, and I tripped and fell. Quite a long distance. But before I hit the ground, I woke up. A shame. I wanted to investigate - but not an entire loss. It seems I cannot be harmed in that place – instead I was…ejected.”

“Most unusual. Though if the place is similar to a dream, it makes sense, since dreams cannot harm you.”

“Yes, although I am not sure if the place is a dream. Rather, some sort of…meeting grounds, where we can access each other’s memories. I am interested to know more, for I have never heard of such things before.” He looks at Regis. “Did I wake you up?”

“No, I was already awake.”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“And why is that?”

Goodness. He’s very…curious. “I was just thinking about some things.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Regis glances at Yennefer, who is still watching the door, paying no heed to their conversation. “Perhaps another time.”

“Yennefer cannot hear us.”

Regis looks at Ameer in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I cast an illusion. She cannot hear us. I did not want to disturb her, when she is concentrating on keeping watch.” He explains. “…I understand that you two are at some sort of disagreement. I have decided not to ask, not to take sides. If it were truly important to our travels, then you would tell me, but you have not, so it is not. Whatever the reason, I understand if you are hesitant to speak in front of Yennefer. I love Yennefer, she is a close friend, but she is also very fierce – for better or for worse. So, I tell you she cannot hear us. Would you still not like to talk about it?”

“You’re feeling better, then?” Regis muses. “You’ve recovered from your fall in the ruins?”

“I have rested. Like I said, we Fox Mothers recover quickly, though obviously not as fast as you vampires. Though I think hiding myself and walking around will still require more sleep.”

Regis stares up at the ceiling, hesitating. After a moment of internal debate, he decides…fuck it.

“Earlier I asked you about singing.” He says. “You told me about trying to keep your happy memories and your painful memories apart. How do you do that?”

Ameer nods. “It is not easy. I…I try to tell myself, that the memories are not connected. And I think, I will not allow those evil people to ruin something I loved for me. I do not want to give them that satisfaction. I try to…to make it normal again. Until those bad memories go away, for they are not worth tarnishing good memories.” He hesitates. “I am still trying. I do not know when I will truly sing again.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Why? What memories trouble you?”

“…I’d rather not talk about it now.” Regis sighs. “Perhaps another day.” How can he explain that the memories of his close friend, his blood brethren, are now inextricably tainted with the memories of his murder? And the one who ruined the good memories was Regis himself?

“…I see. Well, I hope I have said something of use.”

The bad memories are not worth tarnishing good memories…Does Regis deserve to look back on those good times? Is he allowed to? Would Dettlaff despise him for doing so? Or would he want something other than his enraged, mangled body be the last thing Regis remembers?

“…I think you have.” He says at last. “Thank you.”

“Then I am glad.” Ameer closes his eyes. “You should rest now. You look tired.”

A vampire who looks tired…for an immortal being, that’s not a good sign. But Regis smiles weakly. “If you say so. Good night.”

“Good night.”

What memory would Dettlaff prefer him to think of?

He closes his eyes, and tries to think of a happy one.

The sky was overcast that day, but Regis didn’t mind. For the clouds made the light gentle against his newly regenerated skin, shielded him from the harsh sun. And the breeze was gentle against his face, refreshing and youthful. Its very touch - after an infinity of drowning in dark icy terror, and the endless days of bed-bound weakness and slow body regeneration - the touch of the world outside brought him immeasurable joy.

That day was his first day outside. He could not yet walk by himself, so Dettlaff walked beside him, holding his arm in support. Patient and steady, allowing Regis to lean on him when he became tired. He wore a blanket over borrowed clothes, keeping him warm, but he walked bare foot. His movements were so limited there was no point investing in shoes so soon, but had he been given any, he would’ve refused to wear them that day. For he had longed, ached, to feel the earth beneath his feet. And at long last, he felt it. The sturdy ground. The damp grass, wet with dew, that tickled his feet. And the springy moss, soft under his soles.

“How do you feel?” Dettlaff asked him, watching his gait carefully.

“…Happy.” Regis’s own voice had been somewhat hoarse, but not at all lacking in sincerity. “Indescribably so.”

“I’m glad.” Dettlaff had smiled. “Truly, I am.”

As they had walked, they gained the attention of three ravens wheeling overhead. The birds had swooped down, throwing curious questions at the vampires, landing in front of them only to take off a second later, hovering by their faces.

_Vampire! Who?_

_Vampire weak? Why vampire weak?_

_Vampire walking where?_

But Dettlaff had waved them away. _Go. He needs rest._

The ravens had obliged at this, but not flown far. On top of a mossy rock, half submerged in the ground, they watched the scene with curiosity.

At last, they reached the end of their walk. And just in time, for Regis only had the energy left to return to the small, isolated house in which Dettlaff was abiding. But at that moment, his fatigue didn’t matter.

Ahead of him, stretching into the horizons, was the beautiful mountainous landscape of the Nazair. Pine forests decorated the grassy slopes and swayed in the wind in a rare ecosystem of life among a land of rocky barrenness. The highlands stretched across in chains of mountains, some mighty and some diminutive in comparison, clouds gathering at the top of the highest peak. In the distance, a lake sat nestled among a ring of mountains, vast and deep and so perfectly lonely.

And as Regis saw this view, he wept. How could he not? After being melted so viciously, after suffering such immense pain and fear in a void of nothingness…now he stood, himself once more, looking out across the pristine wilderness. Something he had never imagined – could not imagine – happening again. So, at the sight of such splendidness, he wept. In relief. In gratitude. In sheer, sweet joy.

Beside him, Dettlaff placed a hand on his face, wiping away tears with his thumb. “…Is it too much?”

“No. It’s perfect.”

They stood to watch the view for a little while longer, until fatigue and the cold forced them back to the house. But Regis would go to that viewpoint many times in his recovery, and the joy never lessened.

-

He wakes up with tears stained on his face.

The light is coming in through the window as he opens his eyes. First, he shields them against the brightness, then feels the wetness on his cheeks.

Oh…damn it. Hastily, he wipes them away, hoping no one saw it. The bed is vacant next to him, so he sits up.

Ameer is by the door. Hand itching the back of his neck, he paces back and forth anxiously, the raven cloak swirling with his movement.

Yennefer is not there.

“Ameer.” Regis calls over, stopping him in his tracks. “Where’s Yennefer?”

“…She left.” Ameer tells him, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Where?”

He says nothing. But Regis can guess easily where she might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spell was basically just 'fix these clothes for me' (because I'm lazy)
> 
> Having been absent from a drama that's gone on in a friendship group and coming back to a bunch of awkwardness with no one particularly willing to explain what's happened immediately is super uncomfortable lol


	18. Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the books!

_“Lodge of Sorceresses – A secret organisation formed after the fall of the Conclave and the Supreme Council of Sorcerers. It was founded by sorceresses who served the kings of the North, as well as those from the Nilfgaardian Empire. At its founding, the Lodge declared its mission to be the preservation and guidance of the future of Magic. The Lodge also played an instrumental role in the negotiations that led to the Peace of Cintra, which ended the so-called ‘Second Nilfgaard War’._

_In time, the Lodge came to be accused of considerably less-praiseworthy deeds. Among other things, its members were supposedly involved in the so-called ‘Assassinations of Kings’, the victims of which included Demavend of Aedirn and Foltest of Temeria. This led to a series of purges, and for a time the organisation itself was outlawed.” – Sorceresses and Sorcerers by Marcus Marcellinus._

Yennefer stands outside the Nilfgaardian embassy, a terrible knot of dread in her stomach.

That morning, in a burst of angry pride, she had prepared to leave for Novigrad – without Regis. Their argument still stung like salt in a wound, and she couldn’t bear the thought of dealing with him and the Nilfgaardians at the same time. After all, he’d called her weak. With or without meaning to, he’d blamed her for his untimely death at Vilgefortz’s hands. He saw Yennefer at her weakest, and has used that to colour his opinion of her ever since. He’d made it clear he does not trust her, will not trust her.

He reminded her of the terrible things Vilgefortz did to her. And that hurt. A lot.

He was sleeping in the bed when she prepared to leave, but her noise woke Ameer. In the startling suddenness and subtlety of an aguara, she turned around to see him standing up by the bed when just a second before he had been sleeping.

“Oh. Ameer. What is it?” She made no excuses, no insults to his intelligence.

“You are going to the Nilfgaardians.” He frowned. “By yourself?”

“Yes. I do have experience negotiating with Nilfgaardian politics.” Her conversation with Rita had only given her more confidence. “Regis has none - or at the very least, considerably less experience. I am better doing this alone.”

Ameer hesitated. “…I also know the Nilfgaardians. Should I come with you?”

“No.” The thoughts of dealing with old and dangerous acquaintances, both the Nilfgaardians and maybe even Philippa, was something she wanted to do by herself. _Needed_ to do by herself. Without having to worry about how her companions would look on it. “There’s something else I need you to do. Go to the Oxenfurt prison, use your illusions to get in and speak to Dandelion and Zoltan. Ask them who Gwenllian associated with in the Chameleon. I doubt Panther, as she called him, would have randomly chosen to frame Dandelion and Zoltan. He must’ve been there at least once. They could have seen him, without even realising it.”

“…Will you be all right?” Ameer asked, concerned.

“I’ll be fine, Ameer.”

“But…What about Gwenllian?”

“Bedlam won’t attack me if I have Nilfgaardian soldiers with me. Killing them would be too risky.” She said it with great confidence, for she thinks she knows Bedlam’s character well enough to predict his actions. And if she is wrong, it will very shortly no longer be her problem.

Ameer didn’t seem entirely convinced, though. “…What if you need help? May I give you something? To ease my own mind?”

“I don’t need anything.” She insisted.

Ameer sighed. “Yennefer…It is not wrong to accept help from your friends.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Yennefer…” He scratched the back of his neck. “How shall I say this…sometimes, it seems that you despise taking help from others.”

"I've been let down before." She said bluntly. The memory of a conversation plays in her mind. A conversation through a megascope. Red hair. Owl feathers. 

Ameer flinched, his expression one of hurt. "You think I will let you down?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant." Yennefer sighed. "...That's not what I meant. I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else. I do trust you, Ameer. But I'm a proud woman. I always have been, you know this. And you know that I prefer to take matters into my own hands, unless it can't be helped."

"You despise it when others _worry_ about you, too. Do you see it as some kind of weakness, or that others view you as weak?"

Yennefer folded her arms and said nothing.

“…Well. If you do, please know this. Just because I offer help does not mean I think you are weak. I know you are strong, but I also care about you, and I want to make your job as easy and safe as possible.”

Yennefer sighed. Her gaze inevitably glanced over at Regis, still asleep in the bed and unaware of the conversation. She was surprised to see tears on his face. What was he dreaming of? Was he dreaming of his countless dead friends, dreaming of the grief that haunts him, and will haunt him for a long time yet? And when he looked at Ameer’s – no, Milva’s bow…he looked so terribly sad.

Perhaps she had been too harsh, too proud. As much as his words enraged her, they were coming from a place of good, a place of tragic experience.

But his own words still hurt her.

That pride, that reluctance to be the one to cave first, was something she wasn’t going to be rid of so easily. Instead of waking the vampire, she turned to Ameer.

“…All right. You make some valid points, and…if you have something to help me, I’d be very thankful to accept it."

This made Ameer smile. He reached into his bag, rummaging around, and took out something small and white. A bird skull.

“I saved this from when we cooked the bird.” He told her. “It is clean, do not worry.” Holding the skull on the palm of his hand, he raised it aloft in the air. His eyes began to glow.

“Naql lana beyda ean alkhatar , 'iilaa rimal alsalama.” A spell in Ofieri. As he spoke, a pale blue light enveloped the skull. It shone for a moment, then sank into bone. Ingrained swirls and runes became etched into the white hard surface, pulsating and glimmering with colour.

“…Normally, I would spend much longer on this spell, to make it very powerful.” He carefully passed the skull to her. “With a few days work, I would make a spell that, when the holder uses the item, carries them away from danger and to a safe place of my choosing. However, I do not have time to create such a charm. If you are in danger, use this. Say the words, naql lana beyda ean alkhatar, and the charm will alert me to where you are so I can help you. It will not teleport you a large distance, unfortunately. Only within 100 metres, I think.”

Yennefer put the skull carefully away. “Thank you. If my plan goes wrong, I’ll be sure to use it.”

Still, Ameer looked troubled. So Yennefer placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Truly, I will be.”

“I do not doubt your powers. I just worry about you.” He hugged her. “You are my close friend, and it pains me to see you angry with Regis. I will not insult you by trying to get involved. But know I am here, no matter what.”

At this, she smiled. “Thank you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

And so, she had left him pacing in the Alchemy Inn, and travelled outside of Oxenfurt, before the angry protests started in the market square. Once out the gates, she summoned a portal to take her to the gates outside of Novigrad.

But the walk through Novigrad was a lonely one, and by the time she reaches the embassy, she regrets not bringing Ameer with her. For in her mind’s eye, she still sees the charred corpses of elves and dwarves, the impaled remains of the unlucky mages who didn’t manage to make it to Kovir. A stark reminder of how any peasant or nobility, any farmer, strumpet, banker or noblewoman could turn viciously and violently against those who they revered only moments earlier. A stark reminder of how willing they were to turn against those who lived simply among them: elves, dwarves, halflings, whoever had the misfortune of being in the near vicinity when the mages disappeared. And a stark reminder that rulers, religions and common folk would seize on any opportunity, including the evil deeds of only a select few sorceresses, to unleash their rage on anyone at all.

Yet the saviour of mages and nonhumans alike, the Nilfgaardians, are not individuals she particularly reveres either. Brutal, merciless, with little regard for life. Despite their supposed civility and enlightenment, they see no issue in pillaging and murdering helpless civilians, putting them nowhere above the northern kingdoms in that regard. And their supposed worship of law and decorum borders the realm of obsessive obedience, enforced by secret police, brutal prisons and executions. All in the eyes of Emhyr, who cannot content himself with his already vast empire. She had worked for him, knowing that his help was vital in finding Ciri. But she never stops being relieved that Geralt lied about Ciri's supposed death to Emhyr. She has no doubt Ciri would be a fine empress. But she never wants her to go down that path. And she doesn’t care if she’s being selfish.

And so, she stands outside the embassy, holding her head high to hide the wretched nervousness inside her. The Nilfgaardians are known for wanting to tie up loose ends. But she walks confidently into the building regardless. It’s a shame not to have Ameer with her, to conjure up documents that allow her complete access to the embassy. But she makes do. A few sweet words, a few veiled threats, and she manages to convince the guards to escort her to the main hall.

It’s a glorious room: spacious, a high ceiling, polished tiles and beautiful stained-glass windows. The embassy is a relatively new building, and as always, the Nilfgaardian architecture is both impressive and immaculate. The ridiculous number black flags embellished with golden suns are off-putting, though. An incessant, aggressive reminder of their rule over Redania. In fact, perhaps there are a few too many; the room almost gives off an air of desperation. Nilfgaard isn’t controlling its new colony as well as anyone would like to admit. The Oxenfurt protests are a sign of that. 

Standing in the centre of the exquisite hall are two people who draw Yennefer’s gaze immediately. One is a man, dressed in a black doublet with a white frilled cuff at his neck, golden cuff-links on his sleeve and neatly stitched swirls embroidered on his coat. A Nilfgaardian ambassador, one she doesn’t recognise.

The other person she recognises very well: black hair tied in two plaits, decorated with two owl feathers; an elegant dress with red and black stripes on the skirt; a scarlet bodice with detailed lace and pearl strings running up the front; crimson puffed sleeves and elbow-length white gloves; a large lace collar and black necklace at her neck, with a sun pendant hanging from it, the symbol of her new employers. However, there is no strip of cloth around her eyes, no horrible bloody mess within them. The scent of cinnamon and muskroot lingers in the air.

The Nilfgaardian ambassador turns and watches Yennefer in surprise. “Oh. I thought I made it quite clear that I had no room for appointments today.”

Philippa Eilhart turns around. And when she sees Yennefer, her face goes taut, displeased. Her new eyes travel up and down her old colleague disapprovingly, and when she speaks, it’s with deliberately poorly-hidden disdain in her voice.

“Ah. Yennefer. What a delight it is to see you.” She gives Yennefer a fake smile probably reserved for tedious members of Emhyr’s council.

“Likewise, Philippa.” Yennefer doesn’t bother putting in any extra effort into her own tone. “I thought you were in Vizima.”

“I was. But my presence was requested here. What are _you_ doing here, Yennefer? I had heard you were far away in Toussaint.”

“Business. I need to speak to the ambassador.”

“I’m afraid we are quite busy, miss Yennefer.” The ambassador says, clearly noticing the tension between them.

“It’s urgent. About the murder of the owner of Exotic Treasures.”

Surprisingly, the ambassador is suddenly interested, straightening up, his gaze focused attentively on her. Philippa turns away, hiding her face from Yennefer, concealing her reaction.

“Why are you interested in that murder?” She asks evenly.

“Because the people suspected of killing him are innocent. They were framed, and I’m here to prove that.”

“Who are these people? Why do you care?”

“Dandelion and Zoltan.”

“Hm.” Philippa’s brow furrows in concentration. “Dandelion is Geralt’s friend, which begs the questions why he isn’t here with you.”

“He’s busy.” Yennefer certainly isn’t going to share that information with her, the woman who has expressed interest in killing her lover at least once.

“And Zoltan…Who is that again?”

“You don’t remember?” Yennefer asks with some amusement.

“No. Why should I?”

“Well, he certainly remembers you, _Poppy._”

At this, Philippa stiffens. “Ah.” Her voice drips with contempt. “I remember.”

“You seem to be interested in this murder too, Philippa. Why is that?”

Philippa crosses her arms, thinking hard. “…Stefan. Leave us be for a moment.”

The ambassador frowns. “But –”

“It will only take a moment. I insist.”

The ambassador nods slowly, and then leaves the hall, disgruntled.

Yennefer isn’t thrilled at this new situation. Reluctantly, she primes herself mentally for the battle of wills and trickery that is inevitable when dealing with Philippa.

“…Why are you here, Yennefer?” Philippa asks again. “Really?”

“I told you. I need to prove Dandelion and Zoltan’s innocence.” She repeats.

“We know they committed the crime. We found evidence in that inn.”

“Like I said, they were framed. How do you think the public would react to you executing two innocent men?”

Rita’s advice isn’t enough to sway Philippa, though. “What, have you found some hard evidence proving that they’re innocent?”

“No,” Yennefer admits, “but there’s someone I need to speak to, someone who knows the identity of the real murderer. And I want to bring Nilfgaardian soldiers with me. As a…back up, let’s say. To ensure this someone doesn’t try to attack me.” She doesn’t want to use her trump card, Rita’s favour, just yet.

So she takes a different tact. “Why are you so interested in this murder, Philippa? I only care for Dandelion and Zoltan’s sake, yet you seem most interested in it.”

Philippa watches Yennefer carefully. “…We found something in Exotic Treasures. Various stolen goods and dangerous magical artefacts. Enough dangerous artefacts for the ambassador to request my presence, in fact.”

What a surprise. She never would have guessed. Poor Dandelion and Zoltan have certainly gotten caught up in something nasty.

Philippa frowns, and turns away in irritation. Yennefer doesn’t allow herself to breathe in relief. She could feel the sorceress rooting around in her mind, scouring over her thoughts with piercing scrutiny. She hadn’t had the time to block her telepathy, so instinctively she thought innocent thoughts. Knowing such information and not reporting it would’ve been a perfect opportunity for Philippa to land her in trouble.

“Goodness.” She says out loud, now that Philippa has finished reading her thoughts. “This certainly sounds serious. But frankly, I don’t care. I’m just here to prove that Dandelion and Zoltan are innocent.”

“I’m not interested. And we don’t have time nor man power to be lending you soldiers right now.” Philippa says quickly and curtly.

“If Parviz really did have stolen and dangerous wares hidden under his shop, the murderer most likely knew about them, and killed Parviz for them.” She knows this to be the truth, but continues playing dumb. “In fact, they could know more about how Parviz obtained them. If I find the murderer, that information could be yours.”

“Just because they killed Parviz doesn't mean they know how he obtained them. They could have simply heard about the wares from the criminal underground.” Philippa quickly rebuffs her suggestion.

Time to change her strategy again. “How dangerous are these wares?”

“They vary from being harmless but expensive, to very dangerous.”

“Well, were any missing?” She asks innocently.

Philippa says nothing, sensing she’s being led into a trap.

“…I’ll take that as a yes. If there are dangerous magical artefacts missing, perhaps the murderer was successful in his robbery of Parviz’s shop. Who knows what dangerous artefact they managed to steal. I’ve been in Oxenfurt recently, I’ve seen the protests. And I’ve also seen many businesses struggling in Novigrad. If a magical artefact were to backfire, become uncontrollable, and civilians were killed…Well, I imagine the tensions between the Redanians and the Nilfgaardians would increase significantly. There are already protests in Oxenfurt. They could easily spread to Novigrad, too. And, being a sorceress, failing to have dealt sufficiently with this crisis could land you in all sorts of trouble, Philippa.”

At once, Philippa rounds on her. “I’d watch your tone, Yennefer.” She storms over to her, glowering in her face. Her hands are automatically gesturing by her sides, practising whatever spell she wishes to conjure.

Yennefer remains entirely calm. “But Phil, I’m only offering advice.”

“What do you really want, Yennefer?” Philippa demands. “What are you angling for really? You want to try and get yourself in the Nilfgaardians’ good graces?”

“I’ve already told you what I want.” Yennefer says coolly. “I want to prove my friends’ innocence.”

Philippa narrows her eyes, watching Yennefer carefully. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is. Do you not believe me?”

“I just find it hard to believe that Yennefer of Vengerberg is finally staying out of other people’s affairs.” Philippa says with a hint of contempt.

Yennefer’s face darkens. “Oh, is that so? What affairs could you possibly mean?” She pretends to think about it, but allows her scathing voice to ring against the pillars and the floors. “The many affairs in which you tried to abduct, manipulate and impregnate my daughter? The affairs in which you were willing – wanted, even – to falsely brand me as a traitor to my own lover and daughter so they would hate me?”

As she speaks, Philippa’s face remains deadpan. Whether or not she is irritated, guilty, or simply doesn’t care, Yennefer isn’t sure. But she continues. These points aren’t relevant to her goal, but she finds herself riding this wave of anger.

“Or how about the way you forced me into the Lodge, and called me a traitor to an organisation I had no desire to join in the first place? Or when you decided you would kill Geralt so you could manipulate Ciri more easily?”

“All right. You’ve made your points.” Philippa folds her arms. “Have you come seeking revenge, then?”

Yennefer almost laughs. “Oh, Phil. I despise you, but I have no interest in wasting time on such an endeavour.”

“You despise me?” Philippa holds her hand to her chest. “Yennefer, such hurtful words. I thought we were _allies_. I helped you fight the Wild Hunt, didn’t I?”

“Only because Geralt and Triss saved you from Dijkstra.” Yennefer says bluntly. “Only because mages were being executed all over Redania, and I persuaded Emhyr to grant the Lodge amnesty. Besides, I believe it was you who stated you wanted me removed from the north, as locking me in an imperial dungeon would look bad and cost money.”

This throws Philippa. She obviously didn’t expect Yennefer to know that. “I see Geralt has been rather loose lipped as of late.”

“Let me reiterate. I have no intention of returning to politics, and am more pleased than you are at my absence from it. I am simply here to help Dandelion and Zoltan, and as it happens, the information I will gain could stand to help you.”

Philippa turns from her, brow furrowed in thought, pacing across the hallways. “…You do make some compelling arguments. But I’m still not convinced. I know very well that, if you truly wanted to, you could find some clever way to rescue them. You're a smart woman. Why waste all this time and effort?”

Yennefer sighs. She’s sick of this. Time to use her card. “My friends don’t particularly want to live as criminals on the run from Nilfgaard. If you don’t believe me, you can always ask Rita.”

Philippa stops in her tracks. “Rita?”

“Yes. She sends her regards.”

Philippa sighs, and turns away from her, thinking hard. “…Is she calling in a favour?"

"Yes."

"Why didn’t you just say that to begin with?”

“I dislike relying on favours from others. Especially members of the Lodge.” Rita truly is more interested in magical education than anything else, and she had been friends with the woman. But ultimately, she still followed the Lodge’s plans, went along with those manipulative people who wanted to use Ciri.

Philippa nods, accepting this. “…How many soldiers do you need?”

“As many as possible.”

“I can spare two.”

“Five.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“_Four._”

“Fine. Four. I will arrange them immediately. If you find the identity of this murderer, or any more about the stolen wares, you are to inform us at once.”

“Thank you, Philippa.”

Philippa waves her hand dismissively, walking out of the hall. “Just be done with it, and go.”

“…You really feel no guilt, do you? For what you’ve done.” This could be tempting fate when she’s already gotten what she needs, but Yennefer can’t help it. This is the woman who, had she gotten away with her schemes, would’ve caused so much suffering for Yennefer and her family.

Philippa stops, and looks over her shoulder. “…I’ve done many rotten things, Yennefer. I am no madman like Radovid, for I have rhyme and reason for my sins. They come from a belief, devoted to a greater cause. I simply want to protect magic. And so, I’ve done terrible things. I’ve caused wars. I’ve commissioned assassins to kill kings. If I were to stop now, begin to feel remorse for my actions, the very guilt of it might kill me.” She pauses. “I was foolish in the past. I should’ve known that my behaviour would only drive Ciri away, and I paid for it. Now, she is dead. Supposedly.” She obviously doesn’t believe Geralt’s statement to Emhyr. “I meddled in politics, was an accomplice in regicide. I paid for that, too. With my eyes, and the lives of so many colleagues and friends. I don’t feel remorse, Yennefer. I cannot. But I do feel regret, for the _mistakes_ I’ve made. I won’t come after you or Geralt – it’s neither in my interest, nor a wise or justified move. I’m afraid that’s the closest to remorse you’ll get from me.”

Yennefer sighs. “…I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ll never forgive you, Philippa, but I suppose that’s not a problem if you’re not sorry, either.”

“A perfect arrangement, then.” Philippa says. “Farewell, Yennefer.”

“Farewell, Philippa.”

-

Followed by four Nilfgaardian soldiers, Yennefer is relieved to leave the embassy and enter back onto the streets of Novigrad. In fact, the thought of going to confront a gang leader being guarded by a vampire is more appealing to her than speaking to Philippa again.

Although, she does feel some vague satisfaction. Those were thoughts she’d held onto for a long time, and never had the chance to say. So many times she would have loved to unleash her anger on Philippa and the other members of the Lodge four years ago, but they had a more important goal to focus on, a more powerful enemy to contend with. Thus, she’d bitten back her words. Now, it feels gratifying to have vented her frustrations about one member of the Lodge, the one who caused her so much grief. Philippa will pay for her greed and ambition one day, Yennefer knows that to be inevitable. It feels good to unleash her rage on Philippa before that day comes.

There is, of course, one other member whose betrayal hurt far more than Philippa’s ever did. But she won’t think about that now.

She doesn’t have time to mull over it, anyway. Soon enough, they reach the bath house. This time, there are no crowds outside, forced to leave by drowners. It seems her and Ameer’s job as a witcher worked well, then.

Like last time, she’s greeted by the bookkeeper. “Ah, welcome back…” His friendly tone instantly evaporates when he lays eyes on the Nilfgaardian soldiers. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

“Not concerning you. We just have some more questions to ask.” She replies.

The bookkeeper nervously lets them through. Well, no matter his loyalty to Bedlam, he can’t turn the soldiers away.

She holds her head high as she walks through the bath house, though her heart pounds. Even with the Nilfgaardian soldiers as insurance, this is a risky gambit. Is Gwenllian here? There’s a good chance that she might see Yennefer and immediately attack before Bedlam can intervene. And if that happens…well, if anything, she’ll be very annoyed that Regis was right.

However, no one approaches them on the way to Bedlam’s office. If anything, the customers retreat away when they catch sight of the soldiers, whispering and muttering to each other in both curiosity and nervousness.

“Stay close by.” She orders the soldiers. “Two of you in there with me, two of you stay out here. Make sure no one leaves or enters.”

They don’t question her reasons, and even if they did, she wouldn’t tell them the truth. Nilfgaardians don’t believe in vampires – though any who did would turn tails and flee immediately.

Her hand hovers over the door knob. She can do this. She has to do this.

She opens the door.

Her gaze instantly falls on Gwenllian. The vampire is leaning against Bedlam’s desk, arms folded. Her eyes lock on Yennefer’s, unfathomable black eyes. For a moment, Yennefer’s courage almost fails.

Then her attention is dragged to Bedlam. In an instant, he takes in the scene before him. Yennefer, who knows his secret, and two Nilfgaardian soldiers. The soldiers are nonchalant, no weapons raised. They’re not here to attack. But they're still armed. They could become hostile at any moment.

Gwenllian raises her arm. Yennefer prepares herself for the elongated claws, the sharp teeth – but Bedlam quickly puts his own arm in front of her.

“Steady.” He says quietly to her. She lowers her arm, but her gaze doesn’t leave Yennefer.

Bedlam stands up, seemingly at ease despite the Nilfgaardian presence – Nilfgaardians who are most certainly searching for the leader of the drug ring, unaware that he stands right in front of them. “Yennefer. Why are you here?”

Instantly, Yennefer tries to read his mind - only to be repulsed by various dirty thoughts and crude images. She sees him smirk at her disgust. He knows she's a sorceress, knows she can read minds. This is his way of stopping her from trying to cheat.

She'll have to do this the hard way, then. She folds her arms. “You lied to me the last time I spoke to you. I want answers.”

He looks past her. “Why are they here?”

“To make sure you don’t try anything.”

“Try anything?”

“We both know what I’m talking about. I heard what you said last night – and your orders regarding me weren’t very pacifistic.”

He glances at the Nilfgaardian soldiers, his face taut. Good. He won’t try anything with them present, not when he’s succeeding evading the law for so long.

“…What is it, then?”

“I need to know who killed Parviz. And why.”

Bedlam sits back down at the desk. “You think I’m going to tell you anything? In front of them?”

“Fine. You want to talk to me in complete confidence?” She turns to the soldiers. “Wait outside.”

“But Lady Philippa said –”

“Right now, you are working under my orders.” Yennefer says harshly. “I am telling you to wait outside. Should you hear the slightest thing wrong, should you suspect that I am being harmed in any way, then you can return and cut them to pieces or arrest them to your heart’s content. But right now, I need you to wait outside.”

The Nilfgaardian soldiers nod, and dutifully leave the room. Bedlam watches them in surprise.

“I thought they were your insurance. To discourage me from killing you.”

“Don’t get comfortable. They’re right outside. And if anything happens to me, every single man or woman who works for you will be arrested and most likely put to death.” She’s taking a risk here, but she’s too close. She needs to find out the truth of this murder, once and for all. Besides, no matter how confident he appears to be, she can tell he’s exceedingly nervous about the Nilfgaardians waiting just outside his door. He won’t be hasty. “Tell me your side of the story.”

“Hm.” Bedlam looks amused. “You’ve just walked into the lion’s den willingly, knowing a vampire is present, and now have shunned the presence of your guards. You’re a very unusual person. Why are you so desperate?”

“I need to prove Dandelion and Zoltan’s innocence.”

“You could simply break them out. I now know that your other friend is a vampire. And I know exceedingly well how...skilled vampires are. What other reason is there?”

“Why would I tell you?”

“I’m curious. And perhaps we can come to an arrangement.” He leans back. “Bringing the Nilfgaardians with you was a clever little trick to keep yourself safe. It doesn’t surprise me. I’ve heard you’re a clever woman. Cunning.” He smiles. “I like to listen to Callonetta’s songs. She has a soothing voice. I find it very calming. She sings often of your beauty. Likens you to a raven. Sharp, smart creatures with beautiful feathers. Others call you the horsewoman of war. A triumphant title, isn’t it? Evokes an image of…victory.”

“You’re quite the poet.” She says dryly.

He shrugs. “I enjoy the arts. Isn’t that what kings are supposed to do? Even a king of beggars. But you know what I think they should liken you to?”

“What?”

“A bear.”

“And why’s that?”

“Bears are vicious animals by themselves. The male bears like to brawl and fight, but the mother bears? You go anywhere near her cubs and you’re a dead man. She’ll tear you apart in an instant. Ferocity like nothing you’ve ever seen. Even the sharpest sword is nothing in comparison to the might of her maternal instinct.”

“Is there a reason for this?” Yennefer asks tiredly.

“I’ve seen your type of person before. The type who will do anything, no matter the danger or the foulness, to help someone they _love_. Anyone who gets in their way will meet an exceedingly unpleasant fate. That’s not beneficial to me.”

“You’re right. For I will happily topple this little drug exercise if I have to. I will burn it to the ground if I need to. So I would tell me what I want if I were you. You’re a clever man. It’s in your best interest.”

He leans against his hand, watching her. “…This is about Geralt of Rivia, isn’t it?”

She freezes. “What makes you say that?”

“Here you are, taking on gangs and higher vampires. I doubt you’d do that for the ones at the Chameleon when you could easily break them out…At first, I assumed it was about your daughter. The one Geralt was looking for in Novigrad four years ago. I’ve no doubt you would tear apart the city if it meant helping her. But that elf was wearing his medallion. Why would you, his lover, have possession of his medallion but not the witcher himself? Besides, I’ve heard tale of that girl. She’s got strange magic. Powerful magic. I’d imagine she can take care of herself. But Geralt?” He shakes his head. “He’s a witcher. A dying breed. We all know the saying, a witcher has never died in his own bed. And he wasn’t as spry as he is in the poems about him when we met – he won’t have gotten any younger over the past four years. If I were to guess, then, I’d say something was wrong with Geralt, not your daughter. From your reaction, I think I'm right.”

“Why do you care?”

“Well, it’s not fair that I’m expected to reveal everything. I tell a secret, you tell a secret.”

Yennefer bites her lip. This man…No. She can’t refuse him. Gwenllian is right there. Even with the Nilfgaardian soldiers, he still holds the trump card. She has to go along with it.

But she’s not foolish. She won’t reveal everything, she’ll edit the truth. “…Geralt was attacked. Almost killed. By a man we call Tye. I believe you called him Scarface. We need to get answers from him.”

Despite his own words, Bedlam still looks surprised. “_He_ almost killed Geralt? That nervous wreck almost killed a witcher?”

“I know he was at the scene when Parviz was killed. I also know neither you nor your vampire companion know where he went. The person you refer to as Panther is the only person who might know where he went.”

Bedlam nods, considering this thoughtfully. At last, he speaks up.

“…We didn’t mean to kill Parviz.”

“Francis!” Gwenllian hisses. “This woman brought soldiers to your establishment, summoned them to the base! Why are you telling her this? She probably works for Nilfgaard!”

“I don’t.” Yennefer interjects firmly. “They’re simply a means to an end in this situation.”

“What harm will it do?” Bedlam replies simply. “She already knows our entire operation. That would fuck us over far more than some murder if word of it got out.”

Gwenllian frowns, but says nothing, her lips pursed and arms folded. Bedlam continues.

“…See, we’d used him before. I knew he had been involved in black market auctions. So, when he borrowed money from me and landed in debt, I said, hey. If you don’t have the money, you can pay us back with your proper wares. The real ones, not the shite he keeps up the front of the store.” Bedlam frowns. “To this day, it baffles me how he got his hand on those treasures.”

“What do you mean?”

“I assume you’ve learnt this for yourself – he was the worst merchant I’ve ever met. Not a single drop of business sense about him. How does a man who could probably be put out of business by children selling matches and in a shit-stained gutter get his hands on unicorn horns and outlawed contraptions?” He shakes his head. “Could never wrap my head around it. Almost made me insane, honestly. Anyway, he wasn’t happy about my demands, and I had no idea where his wares were being kept myself – he was very secretive about it, paranoid even. Kept going on about how ‘he couldn’t even let a single wisp of smoke find his hidden compartment’, whatever the fuck that means. But I’m not a man you say no to.”

“Of course.”

“The caves we were working in were too cold. The product wasn’t growing fast enough. So, I force him to find something for us. He obliges. Gives us a fancy little contraption that warms up the area without needing fuel – well, the normal type. Runs on blood. It’s why it quickly became illegal, as I understand it.”

Yennefer frowns in disgust. “And where have you been getting this blood?”

However, Bedlam just laughs. “Please. I’m not a madman. Besides, we didn’t need to kill anyone.” He gestures to Gwenllian. “We have someone who can give every last drop of blood in her body and still be fine. Worked like a charm. In fact, you even took one for your garden, didn’t you Gwenllian?”

She nods curtly, not engaging in the conversation. Perhaps she’s still angry at being tricked. Regardless, that solves the mystery of the blossoms in late autumn that had puzzled Regis.

“Anyway, things were going well. Until those damn protests.” He shakes his head. “As soon as they started, I knew we were in trouble. I knew they’d grow, I knew there’d be more and more soldiers. It was too risky staying where we were. Smuggling the drugs in as crystals had been risky enough. If a single soldier found our base, we’d be fucked. Arrested, executed, or at least on the run. So, I ask Parviz. Do you have anything? Anything at all? He says no. I don’t believe him. I hire a group to check out his store, try to find his stash. Gwenllian was one. Scarface – Tye – was the other.”

“Did you recruit him?” Yennefer asks.

“No. He came to us. Said he knew what we were planning. I was ready to kill him on the spot, but he claimed he could help. Said he had great knowledge of magical artefacts, and could point out the most appropriate one to help our cause.”

“What did he want in return?”

“Nothing from us. Turns out, he was looking for something in Parviz’s wares too. Don’t know what, don’t really care. When everything went to shit and Parviz died, he helped hide evidence in the Chameleon. Then he vanished.”

It’s absolutely infuriating. The man is so tantalisingly close, yet she still has no clue about where he could be.

“I assume Gwenllian was to get past the locked trap doors and disarm the traps.” Just like Regis had done. “Tye went down to point out what to take – this Zerrikanian transmutator.”

“Ah, wonderful contraptions. And vital to our operation.” Bedlam folds his arms. “I assume you saw what it did?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Have you seen anything like it?”

“There’s figurine compression.” She’s unfortunately familiar with the spell, having gone through the excruciating pain of compression herself. “But that’s very different to what I saw.”

“It was developed by some mage in Zerrikania. They’d had a drought or something, and they wanted to make something to increase the size of crops and water. The closest the mages got was the transmutator. It can only change the size of solids, and even then, only non-organic items. So it was pretty much useless for their cause. It still could’ve been useful! It could’ve helped to make more resources of coal, building materials and so on. But then merchants got their hands on them, started trying to increase the size of their gold. At first, people were mad for it. So mad, they started killing for the contraption. But the increased gold fucked with the economy. Hyperinflation. Gold became worthless, and people started starving. Eventually, they banned it, destroyed as many of the devices as they could, and our recently departed Parviz managed to get his hands on some. They've been a wonder. Helped move all our equipment, shrink it down so we can smuggle it easily. We can even change the sizes of the crystals and the drugs.”

“That’s all very nice.” Yennefer says with increasing impatience. “But if Gwenllian and Tye were down with the wares, who was keeping guard? Who murdered Parviz?”

Bedlam sighs. He scratches his bald head, and hesitates for a long time. “…I don’t much like turning on my workers. Especially not the important ones. Gold can buy a lot of loyalty, you see, but if your men don’t trust you, then you might as well be paying your enemies to do your work. Never know when they’ll turn on you.”

“If you’re having doubts, I can make it easy for you.” Yennefer’s face darkens. “Either you tell me, or all of Nilfgaard will know about you and your position in this drug ring.”

Gwenllian’s hand begins to shift, claws growing long and razor sharp. But Bedlam grabs her wrist, stopping her once more.

“…You’d really turn me in?” He asks innocently. “Even after I helped hide your friends and colleagues from the witch hunters?”

“You didn’t do that out of the kindness of your heart.” She replies bluntly. “You took a very generous fee from them.”

“I needed that money to bribe guards, keep the Putrid Grove hidden from them.” He insists.

“And took none of the money for yourself? Sorry if I sound sceptical. Tell me who murdered Parviz.”

Bedlam sighs heavily. Slowly, begrudgingly, he takes out a piece of parchment and writes something down.

“The name and address.” He passes it to her. “Go there, and you’ll find Parviz’s killer. You might even find out where Tye went.”

“Thank you.” She holds it carefully to her chest and begins walking to the door.

“Now what?” Bedlam calls. “Do I really trust you’re not going to tell anyone about my operation?”

“I’m no fool. I don’t want an angry higher vampire chasing after me in revenge.” 

Gwenllian nods. “You are smart. And beautiful, too. A pity you were not really interested.”

Yennefer looks over her shoulder. “Perhaps in another universe.”

“Goodbye, Yennefer.” Bedlam pauses. “Geralt was a decent bloke. For what it’s worth, I hope you find Tye.”

“So do I.”

Only when she has given excuses to the Nilfgaardian soldiers outside the door, only when she has exited the bath house – in one piece, not mauled by a vampire – does Yennefer relax. Her heart is still pounding from the encounter. Had she said the wrong thing, antagonised Bedlam too much, she might be dead.

And only now that she’s out, her mission succeeded, does she unfold the piece of parchment that Bedlam gave her, and gaze upon the name and address of the murderer.

This is it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ofieri spell meant "teleport us away from danger, to the sands of safety".
> 
> I really like Philippa as a character. She's kind of a terrible person (I definitely wouldn't trust her with any of my secrets if she was my friend), but I think she's really well written and fun to read/watch. And her killing Radovid was fantastic lol


	19. Panther

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - I've finished all my Christmas deadlines so I should have more time for uploading now!

_“Panthers are dangerous predators found in forests and other woodlands. They are quick, agile and, like all cats, diabolically cunning._

_Panthers are known to retreat mid-flight, yet do not let yourself be fooled into a false sense of security. This is but a ruse to allow them to attack again, by surprise. Never drop your guard until you see the animal drop dead.” – The Bestiary on panthers._

“Where is she, Ameer?”

The aguara keeps his gaze averted, on the floor. He says nothing.

Regis pinches the bridge of his nose, battling the frustration within him. “Ameer. She’s gone to see Bedlam, hasn’t she?”

Ameer touches the back of his neck. “…Yes. She has.”

“Why did you let her go?” Regis demands. “You should have made her wait! Or you should have woken me up! She’s going to get herself killed!”

At this, Ameer frowns. “Regis, you underestimate her.”

“This is a higher vampire we’re talking about – something that can only be killed by another higher vampire! If she attacks her, Yennefer won’t stand a chance -”

“Regis, listen to me.”

“Where is she? At the bath house, I’m assuming?” Regis walks past him. “This is nonsense. I’m not going to let her get killed, I’m going after her –”

He’s yanked back sharply by a hand at his scruff. Ameer roughly turns him around with shocking strength that takes Regis by surprise – and that seems to take Ameer by surprise, too. He quickly let’s go of Regis’s scruff, his gaze averting nervously, apologetically.

"Sorry. I am sorry. I did not mean to use such strength."

“What’s wrong with you? Do you want Yennefer to get killed?” Regis demands.

Ameer flinches at his sharp tone. But neither does he back down.

“What are you going to do?” He asks slowly. “March in there and start a fight?”

“I’m going to –”

“Yennefer is only a human. A human who can be reasoned with. A human who must live by the laws imposed by other humans. Bedlam knows she will not start trying to kill him, and he has obviously heard of her. He should know her to be a negotiator, a tactician. If she has Nilfgaardian soldiers with her, he will not openly attack her. Her presence is not life-threatening to him.”

“I –”

“But you?” He gives Regis no time to speak, his words becoming more confident as he speaks. “You are a vampire. He knows how deadly vampires can be, for he has one working for him. And he cannot try to guess the intentions of vampires. If you appear, his first assumption will be you are there to attack him. Even if Yennefer has Nilfgaardian soldiers with her, he knows that vampires are a greater threat. He will allow Gwenllian to engage in combat.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Not for certain, no. But it is likely. You and Gwenllian are evenly matched. If you fight, Yennefer could get hurt. _You_ could get hurt. And that is the last thing I want to happen.”

“…All right.” Regis holds up his hands. “I won’t storm out. But I’m still not happy about this.”

Ameer breathes a sigh of relief. He looks embarrassed, even a little shaken. “…I do not like this. Being trapped in an argument between two friends.” He hesitates at that last word. “…Are we still friends?”

The question stuns Regis for a moment. He had assumed Ameer understood they were friends. The fact that a small disagreement - one not even about Ameer - has shaken him so much surprises him. Then again, Skellige has utterly destroyed his self-confidence. This is proof.

And so, it's with pity that Regis replies. “Of course we are. You know, friends fight too. It doesn't mean they stop being friends.” 

Ameer’s face flushes. He turns away, frustrated. “I…My old self would say whatever he wanted, however he wanted, to whoever he wanted. Now…my heart is racing at simply disagreeing with you." He shakes his head with deflated exasperation. "I hate this.”

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“No!” Ameer insists.

“I thought not. Otherwise you wouldn’t be insisting I eat bugs all the time.”

This makes him smile. “True. I suppose…I care about your opinion, I suppose.”

“And you care about Yennefer too.” Regis says simply. “You don’t want her to come to harm, do you? Neither do I, no matter our…disagreements. I haven’t known her for as long as you, but I wouldn’t want her to get hurt.”

Ameer’s expression softens. “…You have seen death, have you not?” He asks. “Many times. Like I have.”

The death he has seen, the grief it has caused him…Regis doesn’t know how to describe it. So he simply says, “…Yes. I have.”

“And how did you meet Yennefer?”

“…It was brief. We met at Stygga castle, fighting Vilgefortz.”

“Why was she there? And why were you there?”

“She…had been captured by the mage. As I understand it, he’d treated her cruelly. Very cruelly. I was there helping Geralt find her, and his daughter Ciri. Vilgefortz was going to kill her." He remembers it so vividly. Even in his drunken, blood-riddled state, he remembers her face. Tired and fearful and pained. He remembers the cruelty on Vilgefortz's as he tried to murder her in cold blood. "I tried to intervene, but I underestimated his power…”

“And the mage killed you?”

He shudders at the memory. “…Yes.”

Ameer sighs, touching the medallion distractedly. “…The first time you saw her, she was weak. You have let your first meeting cloud your judgement of her.”

Regis frowns. “I assure you, I have not –”

“I understand you. For we are more powerful than most humans, even most mages, sorceresses, sages. We are very hard to kill. It is easy for us to view humans as weak or helpless, without even realising. I did it all the time. But we should not. Humans are a contradiction. They can be weak, pitifully so, but at times can be surprisingly strong – and ruthless.” He looks Regis evenly in the eye. “I underestimated humans. I underestimated their cunning and cruelty. And I paid for it. Bitterly. You underestimated humans. You underestimated their powers, their strength and viciousness. And you, too, paid for it.”

“I know that. I…You’re right.” A mistake he’ll be loath to make again. “But what wrong is there in wanting to help keep Yennefer safe?” 

Ameer shakes his head. “Like I said, you think of your first encounter with her. You underestimate her.”

“A higher vampire –”

“Is powerful, yes, but Yennefer is cunning.” He insists. “She is smart, very smart. I have seen her talk her way out of many difficult situations. And she may be stubborn, very stubborn at times, and often proud, but she is not foolish. If she truly believed she would be killed, then she would not have gone alone, not unless there was no other option. Besides, in the ruins, she was the one who helped you escape Gwenllian, is that right? She cast the lightning spell and stunned her.”

“But…” He’s beginning to find himself lost for words, a rare phenomenon.

Ameer puts his hand on Regis’s shoulder. “Trust me. I know her well. Trust _her_. She will be fine.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“Of course I am. But if I thought she really was going on a death mission, I would have stopped her myself. And I gave her something, a spell to help her if things truly went wrong.”

“I…I don’t mean to underestimate her.” Regis is suddenly feeling quite guilty. “But you must understand. I’ve seen humans die – friends die – from far less deadly things than a higher vampire. If something happened…”

“You have suffered great grief. I can sense that quite easily.” Ameer’s voice softens. “I do not blame you for being worried. But trust in Yennefer. She will not allow herself to be killed so easily. And Gwenllian will only act if Bedlam tells her to. She knows how to deal with humans very well.”

Regis glances at the medallion. The eyes are glowing a soft yellow. Geralt is watching. How would he feel? Would he be angry at Regis for doubting Yennefer in such a way? Or, the stark memory of their fallen hanse weighing on his mind, would he want Regis to look after Yennefer? If only he could ask. If only he could connect his own mind to the soul lingering in the medallion, the way Ameer does when he sleeps.

But it’s an impossible endeavour. Pointless to wish for. Geralt may be here with them, and his presence is comforting, but Regis still can’t communicate with him. Until they find Tye and get the cure, he will not be able to exchange a single word with his old friend. What Geralt thinks, what he would want, cannot matter in this moment. And it shouldn’t, either. Regis does not need to cling to someone else’s wishes and judgement. This is something he needs to make peace with himself.

It’s hard to let go at that anxiety towards humanity’s frail mortality. But he inhales deeply, then nods. If anyone were to get out of the situation unscathed, it would be Yennefer.

“…So be it. My sudden appearance could aggravate Gwenllian into attacking, like you said, and I’ll trust Yennefer to handle Bedlam. But I don’t want to sit here, doing nothing.”

“We should speak to Dandelion and Zoltan once more.” Ameer suggests. “Now we know Gwenllian is most certainly involved, perhaps they saw her speaking to someone suspicious?”

“Yes. That’s a sensible course of action.” At least doing something will take his mind off his worries. “Let us set off immediately.”

The morning is still in its infancy as they set off, a weak sun rising up over indifferent clouds, their grey colours sharply accentuating the golden hues of sunrise. Yet even though the dew has barely settled on the grass and leaves, even though the sun itself has not yet graced the sky with its full entirety, people are gathering in the town square, preparing to protest. It is best they move quickly, before the town is filled with throngs of people that slow them down.

“So, they are being held in a prison? Not just an encampment?” Ameer asks as they walk.

“Yes, Deireadh prison here in Oxenfurt. Apparently, it was a notorious torture camp for unfortunate mages. Though Nilfgaardians certainly aren’t above torture themselves.”

Ameer frowns. “Are your friends being tortured?” He asks, concerned.

“I dearly hope not. But although their crime is enough to get them executed, the Nilfgaardians should have no reason to torture them. They’re not hiding any information they would care about.”

Soon enough, they reach the prison gates. It’s heavily fortified with Nilfgaardian soldiers, all heavily armed. Thankfully, Ameer has fully recovered from his injury last night, for when they are stopped at the entrance he conjures false papers for the guard, who lets them pass through.

The inside of the prison is much larger than Regis expected. It has oddly charming Oxenfurt architecture for a place of incarceration and wretchedness. The area is…surprisingly clean, too. But no amount of cleanliness can fully erase the misery of this place. And nothing can truly eradicate the lingering smell of human suffering from those tortured at the hands of witch hunters.

“The prisoners are in here.” A Nilfgaardian soldier lets them through a heavily armoured gate, revealing a corridor of prison cells. The talk of prisoners echo through the corridor – some swear words, some mutters of conversations through prison bars, some sobs.

However, Dandelion and Zoltan are not far down the corridor. Both look downcast, but mercifully unharmed.

“Regis! How lovely it is to see you again!” Dandelion says with a surprisingly bright tone that contrasts starkly against the miserable cell. 

“What are you doing here?” Zoltan leans against the bars of his cell, his arms hanging through the gaps. “Payin’ us one last visit before our execution tomorrow?”

“They’ve already given you an execution date? And so soon?” Nilfgaardians are as ruthless as they are an efficient.

Dandelion folds his arms. “Yes. They’ll listen not a word to our testimony or our lack of motive. In their minds, we killed Parviz, and we must hang. But,” he tries to look cheery, “I’ve faced the noose before, and lived. How will this be any different?”

“Well, I’m here to reassure you, we are very close to finding the true killer of this murder. Infuriatingly close, in fact. But we are missing just the final pieces of the puzzle, and we were hoping you could give us the information we need to finish this once and for all.”

“Well, we’ve told you everything we know about Tye, and no matter how we’ve wracked our brains, we can’t think of anything new to tell you about him. What else do you want to know?”

“We’re interested in a woman called Gwenllian. A brown haired Nilfgaardian woman who was a frequent patron at your establishment.”

Dandelion thinks about this. “…Yeah, I remember her. Pretty woman, normally wears flowers, right? Loves hearing Priscilla sing.”

“That’s the one.”

“Why? What do you want to know about a delicate lass like her?” Zoltan asks.

“She is a vampire.” Ameer answers him. “She also is involved in dealing drugs.”

Zoltan stares at him in shock. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“…Oh. Well. Guess you can’t judge by appearances then, eh?”

Dandelion covers his own shock with confidence. “I suppose the Chameleon simply attracts folk from all walks of life. Even vampires enjoy our establishment and fine music.”

“It is vital we know who she interacted with at the Chameleon. Even a single conversation with another patron might be enough to give us the clue we need, so I implore you to think long and carefully.”

Dandelion paces back and forth in his small cell, tapping his forehead distractedly. “Gwenllian…she normally sits right on the front row during our performances. But she doesn’t tend to stay long. After me and Priscilla retire for the evening, she’ll mill around, maybe drink a bit of wine, but she doesn’t really speak to anyone. I don’t think I saw her ever speaking to Tye.”

Regis bites back his disappointment and growing desperation. “You saw her speak to no one? No one at all?”

Dandelion sighs, himself frustrated at the lack of information and Gwenllian’s reclusiveness. “I don’t know what to tell you…Oh, I remember once there were these Nilfgaardians – they told me they were tourists – and they came in to see the show. Everyone was...put off by their presence, to put it mildly. Nilfgaardians still aren't exactly popular around here, though mine and Priscilla’s music eased any tensions there were.” He frowns. “But Gwenllian, she seemed startled. She took off without having a single sip of wine, bolted out the door as soon as the song was finished. I don’t know why. She’s Nilfgaardian herself, and they weren’t soldiers, just normal civillians.”

“Gwenllian broke one of the most important rules in our codex. Those tourists were probably people who she knew from Nilfgaard, and thus she feared they might recognise her.” He doesn’t explain what the rule is, neither wanting to nor having the time to. “Is that all you remember?”

“Oh!” Zoltan suddenly exclaims. “No, I remember something!”

“What? What is it? Don’t leave us in the dark!” Dandelion says excitedly.

“I saw her – it was when we held that little gwent tourney in the inn a few months ago – she spoke to Barney, Lena, their boy, and Filip!”

The names catch Regis’s attention, seize him with excitement he barely dares to feel, lest this lead dwindles into nothing.

“Oh yeah, the owners of that other jewellery shop where Priscilla gets her necklaces!” Dandelion nods. “They occasionally come to our shows. Lena likes listening to the music – poor thing, she’s been through a rough time. Lost her sister four years ago to all that mindless violence and racism.”

“What were they talking about?” Regis asks urgently.

Zoltan scratches his head. “Let’s see…Didn’t hear exactly. But Gwenllian, she wears one of Barney’s necklaces, see, I think that’s how they struck up conversation…She gave Lena some flowers from her garden.” He chuckles. “I’m telling you, I think she has a thing for the ladies.”

That’s very true – Yennefer proved it without a doubt. Though Dandelion hasn’t caught on to her crush on Priscilla, it seems.

“Anyway, she gave the lad a few coins, then gave Filip a card.”

“A gwent card?”

“Yeah. A Fox Mother. Real rare card. You heard of them, Regis? They’re these shape-shifting elven lasses who can turn into foxes and make illusions and whatnot. Not even Geralt would dare fight one.”

Regis glances over at Ameer, who looks disinterestedly around the prison cells. Maybe, entirely ironically, he’s hiding his nervousness with an illusion.

“I’ve heard some anecdotes.” Regis answers evenly.

“Filip…that’s Barney’s brother, right?” Dandelion asks.

“Yeah. He plays with monster and Scoia’tael decks down at the gwent club.”

Dandelion thinks about it. “Oh…Is he the one who goes looking for newcomers, pretends to be a complete novice?”

“That’s the one. He pretends to be shite at the game, loses, asks for another round. People bet big amounts of money on the match, and then he thrashes them.” He laughs. “Pretty sure he’s been chased away with torches and pitchforks by the people he’s swindled plenty o’ times, but here in the club we know his tricks, so we don’t lose all our wages to him.”

“Yes, yes, I remember him now…He plays a mean monster deck, doesn’t he? I learnt not to play against him very quickly. His Scoia’tael deck is something to fear, too.” Dandelion remembers.

“You bet is this. That ploughin’ Scoia’tael deck of his…Where the hell did he get that Aglaïs card? What a pain in the behind it is. You’re not even safe from the weakest of the pack – hang around with less than four units on your row for too long, he’ll play those damn panther cards over and over till the sun falls down.” Zoltan shakes his head. “Aye, that bloody card haunts my dreams atimes –”

“Wait.” Regis interrupts loudly. “Did you say panther?”

“Aye. A panther card. You can bet your bed he’ll play it in a match.”

Regis and Ameer stare at each other.

“Did he have an alibi?” Ameer asks slowly.

“Yes, he was with his brother and sister-in-law all night. His sister-in-law confirmed it.”

“She could have been lying to protect her husband’s brother.” Ameer counters.

“But Tatanu was at their house all night, and none of them left.” Regis points out. “And he wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Could he have been mistaken?”

“No. Ravens are too intelligent for that. If Tatanu says that Filip didn’t leave the house, then Filip didn’t leave the house.”

Ameer frowns in thought. “Strange…Either way, Filip must be involved in some way. The panther cannot be a coincidence. He must know something. We have to find him.”

“You’re right.” He begins hurrying from the prison, Ameer following behind him, and calls back. “Don’t worry, we won’t let them execute you, no matter what!”

-

Leaving the Oxenfurt prison, Regis catches up to Ameer. They hurry through the city, past the ever-growing protests in the market square.

“I will find a horse.” Ameer decides. “You turn to mist, start travelling over. It will be faster that way.”

“Agreed.”

However, they barely make it out of Novigrad gate when a swirling cloudy light stops them in their track. Pigeons on the city wall’s ledges take flight, and Regis barely manages to skid to a halt without running into the apparition.

The milky light swirls with black in its centre. And Yennefer steps out.

She survived her encounter with Bedlam and Gwenllian, then. Regis is surprised at how relieved he feels. The image of her beaten-down form in Stygga castle vanishes to the back of his mind - temporarily.

“It was Filip.” She wastes no times in greetings. “Filip, who works in Barney’s Jewellery Emporium, murdered Parviz.”

“How do you know?” Ameer doesn’t waste time with greetings either.

“Bedlam told me. Gave me his address, too. But he’s not there. His house is abandoned, and so is the shop.”

“What? This doesn’t make sense.” Regis insists. “Tatanu told me that Filip didn’t leave his house on the night of the murder.”

“Well, your raven must’ve been mistaken. Bedlam told me the truth, and leaving your house and shop abandoned are not the actions of an innocent man.” Yennefer shoots back sharply.

“But Tatanu said that he didn’t leave the house. Multiple other ravens were there, too. They couldn’t have all missed him leaving. It’s just not possible.”

“Bedlam told me.” Yennefer repeats, her eyes cold and fierce. “I believe him. Filip’s house is empty, which means he’s fled – coincidentally soon after we compromised the drug ring. And he was the one selling the crystal necklaces. For Bedlam’s smuggling operation to work, he needed someone actually buying the crystals, to make the supply and demand believable. And that man was Filip. He worked in Parviz’s shop, so he probably figured out where Parviz’s secret cache of illegal wares was hidden.”

“He was spotted at the Chameleon too,” Ameer tentatively adds, “and he spoke with Gwenllian, someone we know was at the scene of the crime.”

Yennefer folds her arms, regarding Regis with fearsome impatience. A glare like ice, her voice sharp as a kestrel’s talons.

“You’ve heard the facts. Filip is our perfect suspect. All the details point to him. So, what do you choose? Are you still not going to trust me? Are you going to pick your ravens over my judgement?”

The air freezes with tension. Yennefer waits for the answer expectantly, her piercing gaze still upon him. Ameer looks between the two, a nervous witness to whatever argument might explode next.

Which source do they trust in their limited time? Regis's ravens? Or Yennefer's informant Bedlam?

Regis is the first to look away. He’s being a fool. They’re right – it would be imprudent to completely rule out Filip as a suspect.

“…You’re right. Filip is just too suspicious not to consider as a suspect. And Tatanu could’ve been wrong.” He doesn’t understand how, but that doesn’t matter right now. “I apologise for being stubborn.”

Yennefer sighs. Her icy glare softens somewhat. “I’m not doubting your abilities, Regis. But Filip is clearly involved with this, in one way or another. It’s imperative that we find him.” Just as Ameer said, the panther connection can't be a coincidence.

“Yennefer, any spells we could use?” Ameer asks.

She shows them a red scarf. “I took this from his house, to try and track him down. I was going to try hydromancy. But I’ve never attempted it before, so I’m not sure if it’ll work.”

Ameer touches the back of his neck, frowning in thought. “If Filip is involved, then Bedlam will have told us about our intrusion, about the Nilfgaardians finding the base. Most likely, he left as soon as he could with his brother and his brother’s family. Which direction would he be most likely to go in?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t mention having any other family or friends somewhere else in the region, and his parents are both dead.” Regis remembers.

“Never mind.” Ameer looks up at the air above him. “Where is Tatanu?”

“He went off hunting last night, to recuperate from his near miss with Gwenllian. I'm not sure where he is.”

“Yennefer, will you start on the spell?” Ameer asks.

“Of course. Normally, one would use a fountain, but I suppose the river will have to do.”

Ameer looks at Regis. “And we will start with your raven.”

Suddenly, in the sky above them, sea gulls appear. They wheel on the air currents, screeching and squawking excitedly as if they’ve seen the carcass of a whale or some other large, dead animal. A huge signal to other animals in the area that a great feast is available.

It doesn’t take long for corvids to appear. Crows, magpies, jackdaws…and ravens. Regis scans the approaching birds that fly over the city, searching for his own raven.

There. The white feather on his breast. He’s flying fast, excited at the promise of food.

“There. I see him.”

Ameer nods, and the seagulls vanish just as quickly as they appeared. Confused, the birds circle around Novigrad gate, cawing in frustration at the lack of food. Soon, they begin to fly back to the city, to eat scraps off the cobbles and hunt rodents. But Tatanu does not join them. He spots Regis, and swoops down towards him, landing on his outstretched arm.

_Where food? Seagulls gone? Confusion?_ He complains.

Regis reaches into his bag and gives him some berries from his foraging, which Tatanu gulps down happily. Now that Regis has his full attention, he speaks. _This is important. Remember the man who runs the jewellery shop? The smart man in love with the woman elf?_

Tatanu hops up and down excitedly on Regis’ arm. _Yes! I remember!_

_We need to find him. He left Novigrad and we don’t know where he is. Have you seen him?_

Tatanu cocks his head. _I hear rumours! I go search! Stay!_ Before Regis can ask anymore, he takes flight, towards the forests beyond Novigrad gate.

“What did he say?” Yennefer asks

“He heard rumours. He didn’t say what of, but he’s gone to go search.”

“Good. I will go find foxes.” Ameer looks towards the forest. “These woodlands should have many. They may have seen something, too.” Without waiting for an agreement, he hurries off into the forest, his form melting into the shadows of the undergrowth and vanishing from view.

Waiting for him to return is agonising. Yennefer sits by the river bank, her hand glowing with magic.

“Greame et dwyr! Rhobeir’me gelle a failte!”

He sees the water’s surface illuminate…but no image appears, and soon the waters return to their normal, muddy selves. Yennefer sighs in frustration, and tries again.

Regis himself wracks his brain of the possible places Filip might have gone. He would want to get away from Nilfgaardian influence – a nigh impossible task, for their influences are everywhere in the North. Which kingdoms don’t feel the rays of the empire's sun over them? Kovir and Poviss are further up north, both very respectable and uneventful countries, but a long and difficult trek to reach. Skellige is closer, but the islands are more hostile to foreigners, and the seas are rife with storms and pirates. If Tatanu had heard ‘rumours’ about their location, then that means they must not be far from Oxenfurt. But surely they won’t be travelling to Oxenfurt itself – the city is swarming with Nilfgaardians, the very people Filip is undoubtedly trying to avoid. So where is their suspect heading? Unfortunately, he doesn’t know enough about the man to predict his movements accurately. And thus, all the while, he watches the skyline for any sight of Tatanu, silently urging for him to return soon and deliver news he won’t be able to accurately predict himself.

Both Regis and Yennefer are silent in their endeavours, neither speaking to the other. And, although Regis loves to talk, he was very much contented to remain silent in this case. The icy hostility between himself and Yennefer has vanished temporarily, now that they seem to have reached some temporary truce. Besides, there are far more important things to be worrying on, and their argument would only interfere with their task. But that doesn’t mean it’s gone entirely, either. They’ve had some time to think about their spat, lick the wounds inflicted upon them by each other’s harsh words, which means the time is nearing for when they will inevitably have to speak again about the argument. Which Regis doesn’t particularly want to do. He senses Yennefer doesn’t want to, either. It seems they’re both as childish as each other.

At last, the sight of a black speck, almost imperceptible among a blanket of grey clouds, enters Regis’s line of vision. Tatanu swoops down from the forest’s leafed ceiling towards Regis, flapping his wings to slow his descent as he lands on Regis’s arm.

_Smart man leave big city. Smart man big beard man elf woman elf human child mix with moving wood horse carry._ A wagon, perhaps?_ Go south. Raven friends see them leave big city. On path south, follow river. _

_Which side of the river are they on? Our side, or on the opposite bank?_

_Our side. Raven friends see them pass big house old house. Hour before._

“He left Novigrad, went south. They’re following the river.” He reports. _What do you mean, big house old house?_

_Big house old house horses. Horses run. Hour before._

“So they’re heading our direction, that’s something…” Yennefer muses. “Did he give a more specific location?”

“He said, big house, old house, horses. Horses run. This was an hour ago.”

Yennefer frowns in contemplation. “…The Vegelbud residence. It has to be. They own a huge estate, one of the oldest families in Temeria. And they have a horse track near their mansion.”

_Thank you, friend. You’ve been great help._

Tatanu fluffs up his feathers proudly, then takes off, soaring in a circle around Regis before flying towards the forest. _I go look more!_

As soon as he leaves, they’re revisited by another friend. Ameer hurries from the undergrowth, returning to his companions with excitement.

“They are going to an abandoned manor.” He reports. “A place where a sorcerer did strange experiments before he was killed by witch hunters, apparently. The foxes we rescued from the river, Yennefer, I found them. They are moving there – they say the place smells of food that attracts rodents, meaning prey is plentiful. They say they’ve seen Filip speaking to a man before, a man ‘not from here, who stinks of a land of gold and dimeritium.’”

“From Kovir or Poviss?” Regis suggests. “The largest exporters of gold, and dimeritium.”

“This was yesterday. Now, that man from Kovir is at that manor, and he has been there for some time. As if he is waiting for someone. I am thinking, he is waiting for Filip.”

“Filip was spotted at the Vegelbud estate, so he’s certainly in the area. That can’t be a coincidence.” Yennefer says firmly.

“Kovir is one of the few northern kingdoms untouched by Nilfgaard.” Regis frowns in thought. He can remember a conversation with Filip, an excuse he gave to Lena.

_“He’s someone from the gwent club.” Filip says hastily. “A friend of Havel’s. Havel’s leaving to go back to Kovir soon, he wants some of his cards that I borrowed back.”_

“…Filip has a friend called Havel, a man from Kovir. He’s returning to his homeland soon. If this man that the foxes have spotted is Havel, and Filip is fleeing the Nilfgaardians, perhaps they’re meeting to travel to Kovir together.”

“Are they at this meeting place?” Yennefer asks urgently.

“No, there is no sign of them as of yet.”

“So, they’re somewhere between the Vegelbud estate, and Aeramas’ old manor.” Yennefer rubs her forehead. “That’s still a lot of ground to cover. If we wait by the manor, his acquaintance from Kovir could alert him, or we could be spotted, or Filip could get caught by Nilfgaardians before he arrives. But now we know the boundaries of his movement, this spell will be easier.”

She focuses her attention on the water’s edge again. “Greame et dwyr! Deagnis cair-lle ess pyr’shena a et cleytte!”

Once more, the surface of the river illuminates. This time, though, colour leeches through the choppy water like blood draining from the battlefield onto the river. Yennefer clenches her fist, her face taut in concentration. The colours merge, become settled and stable…

And an image appears. Open ceiling caves and chasms that burrow deep into the rock, surrounded by thick forest that casts the area in darkness.

Yennefer smiles triumphantly. “I know that place. I know of that hideout.”

Ameer’s face falls. “More caves?”

“Four years ago, Temerian guerrillas – what was left of the Blue Stripes – hid there. It was their base camp while they fought the Nilfgaardians. Geralt went there a few times. I know where it is. We need to go now, it’s not far.”

Together, they cut through the forest, almost tripping over roots and bushes in their haste. Regis can barely believe it. Finally this whole chaotic affair, after being caught up in murder mysteries and a complex drug scheme, finally this sordid mess is coming to a close. Dandelion and Zoltan’s freedom are tantalisingly close now. And, equally as tantalising, Tye’s location. Filip must know where Tye has gone. He has to. Regis does not allow himself to consider the alternative – that all this hard work and trouble was for nothing.

Soon, what little light could filter through the clouds begins to get darker. Up ahead, Regis can see the beginning of tall cliffs, blocking out the light and casting a gentle shadow over the forest. The forest remains thick and hardy, providing them camouflage as they get closer and closer to the cliffs. Through the vegetation, Regis can see an opening in the rocks, where Temerian guerrillas smuggled supplies and weapons to lengthen their risky revolt against their Nilfgaardian overlords, where they found shelter from the elements inside the security of the chasm.

Now, someone else seeks shelter there.

Ameer suddenly stops, putting his arms out to halt Regis and Yennefer. He stares through the trees, at the opening by the base of the cliffs, and his face is stony with concentration.

“We must make as little noise as possible.” He whispers.

Yennefer and Regis simply nod. For up ahead, startlingly close, is a wagon and horse. Boxes and cases are piled on the back, strapped down with rope and covered with cloth. The horse, a dappled grey, anxiously paws the ground and shakes its reins.

Sitting on a rock that juts out of the ground is the she elf. Like before, she is dressed warmly in gloves, hat and a long coat. Next to her is the half elf lad, tapping his feet against the rock. She passes him a water bottle, which he drinks thirstily.

“I’m hungry, mama.” He complains, wiping his mouth.

“I know, sweetheart. But we can’t stop for long.” She looks, with concern, over at the wagon.

Barney, himself wearing warm clothes, is kneeling by the wagon’s wheel. He sighs, wiping his brow. Regis can see tools lying on the grass next to him.

“I think I’m almost done.” He reports. “Almost fixed it.”

“You don’t think we should stop here, do you?” Lena asks. “Frederik is getting tired. Why don’t we stop for something to eat?”

“I don’t know…It looks as if it might rain. I suppose we could shelter in the old hideout…But Filip says we can’t stop until we meet with Havel.” Barney’s voice is troubled.

Lena’s face tightens. She says nothing.

But where is Filip?

Regis is almost beginning to panic when movement from the chasm entrance catches his eye. First, he spots the glow of a torch. Soon after, a figure emerges from the shadows of the rocks and trees, pale and nervous.

“No-one in there.” Filip glances back at the cavern. “I think…I heard some noises, though.”

Lena quickly, automatically, puts her hands over the boy’s ears. “What did you hear?”

“I don’t know. Not human. Something…bug-like.” Just like he says, Regis can hear the distant scratchings of monsters from somewhere inside the chasm. No wonder the horse is nervous.

“Didn’t the Blue Stripes hide here, though?” She asks. “Surely there’ll be no monsters?”

“But it’s been four years. Monsters might have taken over in that time.”

Barney stands up quickly. “That settles that, then. We need to leave. We can’t have endregas or some other monstrosity adding to our list of problems.” A wise decision. Monsters of the insectoid class are both unsightly and dangerous.

Lena nods sharply in agreement. “Somehow, I’ve suddenly gone off this place.” She picks up the boy in her arms, and walks over to the wagon. “Time to go again, Freddy. We can have some food soon.” She places him down on the wagon, then sits next to him, squeezing in between their boxes of possessions.

Barney quickly gathers his tools. “Yes. I’ll sit up front again.”

Filip sighs. “Do I have to sit on the horse again? It’s mighty uncomfortable with the harness attached.”

“Like I said before, there’s no room. Unless you’d like us to lash you down on top of the boxes?”

Filip shakes his head. “Never mind. I’d much prefer the horse.”

Ameer turns to Yennefer and Regis. “How shall we approach this?” He whispers quietly, almost inaudibly.

“Well, we need to ask about Tye. I don’t think that will just come up naturally in conversation. We’re going to have to confront them.” Regis whispers.

Yennefer bites her lip, thinking hard. “…I’ll do it. I can try and read his mind. Besides, they don’t know me, but the second Filip sees you, he’ll know you’ve figured out his involvement with the drug smuggling operation.”

“There’s still a chance he may flee at the sight of you. Bedlam may have described you when he warned them.” Regis points out.

Ameer tilts his head. “Perhaps…I shall change your appearance? Then they will not be as suspicious.”

“Are you sure? Will you manage it?”

“This? Of course. I am altering your appearance, not hiding you. And I am feeling better since yesterday. For starters,” her clothes change colours, to pale pinks and rose reds, “Bedlam will have told them you wear black and white. Not anymore.”

Yennefer regards her own clothes. “Hm. Can’t say I’m a fan of the colours personally.”

“Now for the rest.” He nods, and her hair and eye brows change from black to blonde. Regis blinks, and suddenly she is a good few inches taller. Her face becomes more rounded, her eyes turn bright green, and sun-blushed freckled decorate her nose and cheeks.

“There. You do not look like Yennefer of Vengerberg from the ballads anymore.” Ameer admires his handiwork.

“You could certainly fool me.” Regis agrees, impressed. He wouldn’t have an inkling about her true identity, certainly not by her appearance alone. In fact, it’s almost unnerving.

“Hm, I won’t look in a mirror.” At least her voice is the same. “I’m sure I would find it most unsettling.”

Up ahead, Filip is preparing to mount the horse. Ameer ushers her forwards.

“Hurry. We will be here, hiding, in case something goes wrong. But be quick. I smell monsters in this place.”

Yennefer walks into the clearing with relaxed ease. Even with the illusion, her gait, her confidence, is unmistakable. “Excuse me, there.”

Filip freezes, looking over his shoulder. On the wagon, Barney looks nervously around the clearing for any signs of Nilfgaardian soldiers or other people. Thanks to Ameer’s illusions hiding himself and Regis, he sees none. In the back, Lena takes hold of her son tightly.

“Who are you?” Filip asks stiffly. He glances nervously over at the chasm entrance, where the scuffling sounds are still audible.

“My name’s Molly.”

“You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous to be walking around in the forest.”

“Are you Filip?”

“How did you find us?” He demands instantly. How can she answer that? Damn it, the trick is up before it even began.

However, Yennefer doesn’t look rattled in the slightest. “I was at the Vegelbud estate, and they told me you’d passed by. I found some wagon tracks, and here we are. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d find you at all.”

“What do you want?” He steps away from the wagon, towards her. Trying to lead her away from his family, perhaps?

Yennefer takes out the drawing of Tye. “I’m looking for this man. I’d heard you know him.” Beyond her, the scuffling noises in the caves are getting louder. Regis silently wills them to hurry up.

Filip barely glances at the drawing. “Don’t know him.”

“Please, I implore you to look closer and think hard. He...” She looks away, wringing her hands in a nervous manner very unlike her. “Please…You see, he’s left me with child…”

Filip looks surprised. “He left you with child? Oh…I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I have to find him, please.” She says in a convincingly distraught voice. “I don’t know what I’ll do otherwise!”

He sighs, frowning. “I…I might have seen him heading into Novigrad?”

“Is that so?” Yennefer sounds as if she doesn’t believe him.

“Yeah. So you need to leave the forest, go back on the main road and follow it North.” Ah, he’s just trying to get rid of her. “It’ll be hard to miss, a great big city, bigger than Oxenfurt. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to be on our way –”

The monsters arrive.

Five endrega workers exit the caves, just like Barney guessed. Claws snapping, fangs needle-sharp, joints clicking as they move with startling speed.

The largest scurries towards them. Filip throws himself out of the way, pale with fear, leaving Yennefer to face the creature.

“Damn it!” She shouts, and casts a lightning bolt. The creature shrieks hideously, smoking at the joints and sizzling with electricity.

Two, seeing their leader’s fate, head for easier prey. Startlingly fast, they approach the wagon, claws twitching in anticipation. The boy screams in terror; Lena shields him with her body.

But Regis is faster. Discretion be damned. He flies forwards, claws extended and teeth bared. His talons sink into the armoured body of the endrega, cracking its shell, with stinking blood leaking from the wounds. The endrega flails and tries to shred him, but he keeps on slicing until its legs give way and it collapses. The boy continues screaming. There are more behind him – the second he gives the same fate, cutting it ruthlessly into pieces. The third one is victim of another lightning spell from Yennefer. Still, the boy screams.

“Vampire!” He sobs to his mother. Oh. He’s afraid of Regis, not just the insectoids.

But he has no time to dwell on it – another scream, this one deeper and older. Filip is crawling backwards frantically, sweat dripping down his face. The final endrega scurries towards him, closer and closer – no, they need him alive – Regis runs with his talons extended –

But the endrega suddenly stops. Not entirely frigid, not as if frozen by icy winds of a tundra. Its body still heaves, its claws snap automatically, but it takes not a single step forward. The creature has simply…stopped. It has no more interest in its prey.

An arrow embeds itself in the endrega’s head. The monster hisses and screeches, but still doesn't move.

“Yennefer, kill it.” Ameer emerges from the trees, his voice quiet.

Yennefer, whose appearance has suddenly changed back to her normal self, throws a lightning bolt in its direction. The endrega is felled quickly.

Filip still gasps, shaking as he sees the endrega’s smouldering corpse. Then he looks at Regis, and his face contorts into fury and fright.

“You…” Then he looks at Yennefer. “A-And you’re Yennefer of Vengerberg…”

“The deception was finished when you saw Regis.” Ameer walks forwards softly, lowering his bow. “I thought it was a waste of energy to continue the illusion. Yennefer, did he give anything away?”

“He definitely knows Tye.” She says quietly. Her mind-reading was a success, then. “But he didn’t give away where he went.”

“What do you want?!” Filip shouts. “Leave us be!”

“So you really did know Tye.” Ameer glances at the corpse. “We just saved your life, and the life of your companions over there. Is that not worth you giving us some information?”

Filip, however, pays little attention to Ameer. He’s staring at Regis.

“You’re a vampire.” He swallows. “Like Gwenllian.”

“We just want to know about Tye. That’s all.” Regis steps forwards, fuelled by anger. This man lied to him. All this time, Filip has known about Tye, and he tricked Regis. “He’s a dangerous man, and a vile one at that. You will gain nothing, benefit nothing, from hiding him, and instead face us. And I must warn you, our patience is getting terribly scarce.”

“No. It’s not just Tye. You’re here about the ones from the Chameleon, aren’t you?” He glances quickly at the wagon. “You wanted to prove their innocence. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

Filip swallows. “You-you know what I did.”

Regis narrows his eyes. “...You really killed him, didn’t you? You murdered Parviz.”

Filip says nothing, but his face says it all. Nerves have gotten the better of him. Gone is the cunning, smart, cool man who gave away nothing even when directly interrogated about the man he murdered. His role in the drug smuggling has been revealed, as the entire operation falls apart at the seams. He’s had to flee his homes, in fear of the Nilfgaardians figuring out his role. He’s been attacked by endrega’s, confronted by a higher vampire.

He’s panicking. So, his face tells Regis exactly what he needs to know.

Damn it! Regis’s stomach twists with anger and embarrassment. He’s made an utter fool of himself. Allowing himself to be tricked by this man, doubting Yennefer’s information…it’s a struggle to keep his voice calm, keep those nasty emotions at bay.

He glances over at Lena. “You lied to me. You provided a false alibi.”

She holds her son tightly. “He was acting strange the morning they found the body – I knew he’d done something bad! And when I heard about Parviz’s death, I suspected he’d had something to do with it! I had no proof, but I couldn’t let the Nilfgaardians punish this family! We’ve been through enough without getting involved in some murder plot!”

An astute woman. But that doesn’t explain one thing. “I have reliable reports that claim you never left the house. How on earth did Filip get in and out of the house without being spotted?”

Barney looks at Filip, aghast. “You…Filip, you told us you picked the new house because the tunnels could help us escape if there was another pogrom or racist attack! All this time you’ve been using it to sneak it and out, for all this – this drug dealing business?!”

Escape routes. In a start, Regis remembers what Otto, the herbalist, told them.

_“Up here, we’re always suffering from pogroms and racisms and whatnot. Had a real bad time of it four years ago. Things’ve calmed down since then, but we certainly haven’t forgotten how quickly humans can turn against us. Escape routes are the fashion among nonhumans now. Building tunnels from our basements, away to a safer place, in case a mob comes knocking on our doors or tries to burn our houses down. In Novigrad it’s easier – plenty of pre-existing tunnels and sewers to take advantage of – but it’s taking me a bit longer, out here in the countryside.”_

Escape routes have been getting populate among nonhumans, in case of a racist attack. And there are plenty of tunnels in Novigrad being used for this.

Their house had access to these tunnels. And what did Filip say when he mentioned the racial attacks on Lena in her own home?

_Lena could barely stand to be in the house. Me and Barney saved up as much money as we could, so they could move to a new house. Helped pick it out myself, get a discount. It was the least I could do, after they took me back in._

Filip was the one who helped pick out the family’s new house – one with tunnels for him to get in and out unnoticed. Tatanu was never mistaken; Filip never left the house _through the door_.

Filip doesn’t answer his brother, though guilt is plastered all over his face.

“We don’t mean to hurt you.” Yennefer folds her arms. “This doesn’t have to escalate.”

At this, Filip laughs nervously. “You don’t mean to hurt me? You plan to turn me in to the Black Ones, don’t you?”

He looks panicked, desperate. This man knew Tye. What if Tye left him some of that poison? Or some other dangerous weapon? They’ll need to be careful, keep him calm, stop him from flying into a panicked frenzy and attacking. If they had to kill him in self-defence, then this all will be for nothing. Regis tries to keep his own voice calm, gentle, despite his seething frustration.

“We didn’t say that. Please, tell us about Tye. It’s of the utmost importance.”

“But you do want to turn me in, don’t you?” His hand clutches his chest.

“And why would we do that?” Yennefer asks innocently.

“Don’t try to fool me. You want to turn me in for killing Parviz.”

“That doesn’t matter to us –” Regis tries to speak.

“Of course it bloody does, you interrogated me about it!” Filip roars.

“He’s terrified of you.” Yennefer whispers to Regis. “It’s all he’s thinking about. Let us handle this.” She steps in. “Well, maybe if you tell us what we need to know about Tye, then we can…reconsider the Nilfgaardian angle.” She offers. “We can forget all about this business with Parviz. You can run away to Kovir without any problems at all.”

Again, Filip laughs. “No. I’ve heard tales about you. That damn bard is always bragging about his adventures, and he mentioned once about how you rescued him from torturers. You’ll turn me in to save them. I know you will.”

“Filip, please –” Regis tries to interject, but Filip cuts him off.

“Don’t talk to me!” He shouts. “You, you’re a vampire! You could just turn to mist, break them out, fight as many soldiers as you want to do so! Why’re you chasing me down like this?! Just leave me be! Leave us be!”

“The reason why we’re pursuing you is because you know about Tye.” Yennefer emphasises. “We need to know where he went.”

Filip stares at him, breathing hard. His hand still lingers at his chest. Feeling the base of his neck. His gaze quickly flashes over to the wagon.

“Barney. Go.”

“What? We can’t –”

“I said go! Get to the meeting place! I’ll catch up!”

“Filip, I won’t leave you!” Barney shouts.

With no warning, the horse lurches forwards. Barney grabs the reins and tries to pull it, but the animal continues on regardless.

“Woah! Stop!” Barney looks desperately over his shoulder, but Filip shakes his head.

“I’ll meet you there! I promise!”

The wagon disappears into the forest. Regis sees a glimpse of Lena still comforting her trembling son, watching the scene in horror before she vanishes into the vegetation.

“What did you just do?” Filip demands when they’re gone.

“You wanted them to leave, did you not?” Ameer frowns in confusion. “So I made the horse take them away. She will take them back onto the road. Is that not what you wanted?”

Filip’s lip curls as he looks Ameer up and down. “Who…What the hell are you? You’re a sorcerer too? No…A witcher?”

“That does not matter. Where is Tye?”

Filip swallows again. He’s holding something at his chest, Regis realises. “I…Me, against a sorceress, a witcher and a vampire…I can’t win against that.”

“Filip, stay calm. We’re not here to fight. We saved you, didn’t we?” Yennefer must sense his growing desperation.

Filip hangs his head, hand still clutching his chest. “I…I don’t have a choice, do I? Not against the three of you.”

Regis shares a glance with Yennefer. Is this it? Is he giving himself up? It would be foolish not to be cautious, though.

“Well, are you willing to co-operate?”

“I…Yes. I will.” Still, his head hangs. “Just…please, don’t let the Black Ones hurt my family.”

Yennefer’s eyes widen. She begins casting a spell, starts shouting something.

“Get back –”

Too late. Her mind-reading warns them just a moment too late.

Before anyone can respond to Filip’s request, before Yennefer can throw a spell, before Regis and Ameer can comprehend what’s happening, Fillip throws something down onto the ground. Where it impacts the ground, light shoots up.

For a split second, Regis can see the hulking form of a golem. This creature is different from any other golem Regis has seen before; dazzling green crystals stick out from every inch of its inorganic body. Arms, legs, torso, even its very face is hidden behind crystalline growths, ranging from deep emerald hues to bright turquoise.

But Regis only has a moment to look at the golem.

Then a shrill, piercing noise deafens him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you manage to guess who the murderer was? Did you think it was someone else?
> 
> Also, Aeramas' manor is the one that has all those weird cheese experiments in it lol


	20. A Great Escape

_“-Don’t panic, Master van Vilet. You’ve nothing to fear._

_-Nothing to fear? That coming from your wealth of experience? You even know how vulpesses fight?_

_-Well, they’re quick, right? Unpredictable._

_-You’re a regular fount of knowledge, Master Fysh. Sure, a vulpess is quick, and a lot stronger than you’d expect. But illusions – they’re her true weapon. False visions. Deceptions. Ever heard the tale of Calib Bronn? The petty nobleman? Considered one of the finest warriors in all Haakland. Till he set out to hunt a vulpess. Soon after, he rode into a village, found a girl, agreed on a price…She said he’d be her first. Seemed a shy thing, led him into the woods, to a place as good as any. Took down his breeches, then vanished. And Calib found himself surrounded by a pack of angry endregas. That’s your fate – death by illusion.” – Geralt explaining the dangers of vulpesses to Master Fysh and other crew members on the _Prophet Lebioda.

A Nilfgaardian soldier visiting a convict’s jail cell is never a good sign. Not for a man, a woman, an elf, or a dwarf. And this dwarf, Zoltan Chevy, has seen enough of the Nilfgaardians to know that he is well and truly fucked.

The soldier stands outside the cell, decked out in armour and armed with a sword. “Arms behind your head.” He demands. “Any foolishness and I will kill you, which I do not want to do.”

Zoltan obliges, but not silently. “You’re going to bloody kill us anyway. What difference does one day make?”

Unsurprisingly, the soldier doesn’t answer. He ties Zoltan’s hands behind his back, and pushes him out of the cell.

“Where are you taking him?” Dandelion demands, looking on with badly disguised horror from his own cell.

“Do not worry. You will see for yourself soon.”

“Sounds like he should be worrying, the way you say it like that.” Zoltan mutters to himself. The soldier stops to talk to another Nilfgaardian who walks past.

“Let us see who shall break first.” The soldier gives a quick and mighty unpleasant smile.

The soldier with his hand on Zoltan’s shoulder sighs. “No, you will win. I am certain that bard will squeal faster.”

“I would offer we bet on it, but I fear that would be pointless.”

“What are you doing?” The voice comes from another Nilfgaardian at the end of the corridor. This one doesn’t wear armour, though. Instead, he dons a pompous black and gold suit, watching Zoltan with a disdainful expression.

“Stop chatting and bring the prisoners to the interrogation room.”

Instantly, the soldiers stop talking, and move on. Their obedience is nothing new among Nilfgaards, but it still makes Zoltan uneasy.

He’s escorted past cells of fellow prisoners, some of which jeer and curse at the passing soldiers, some of which retreat to the back of their prisons. He hears whisper among the cells, none of them particularly inspiring.

“They’re proper fucked, aren’t they?”

“Completely done for.”

He’s led out of the hallway, down the twists and turns of much darker one until they reach a set of doorways. One is open ajar, and when they pass, the well-dressed man frowns.

“Who left this open?” He huffs, slamming it shut. “Can I not trust these fools with even a simple task?” The well-dressed man takes out a set of keys, dangling on a metal ring, and locks the door. Then he steps to the next door, and unlocks it. As soon as it opens, Zoltan can smell the reek of blood.

“In here.” The soldier pushes him inside. The room is surprisingly well lit, with no torture devices that Zoltan can see. Simply a table and two chairs, all entirely clean. And yet, no matter how hard the Black Ones scrub, they can’t get rid of that smell of blood.

“Take a seat.” The well-dressed man sits down at the table, a paper and quill in his hands.

“Is that a suggestion, or a demand?”

“What, you do not want to sit down?” The man replies without even looking up from the paper.

“What if I want to stand? What if I prefer it?”

“I grow tired of your attempts at wittiness. Sit, before I force you to.”

This time, Zoltan sits without complaining. Subtly, he tries to shift the ropes around his wrist, but they’ve been tied tightly.

“Zoltan Chivay, co-owner of the Chameleon inn…” The man reads the paper aloud. “Ah, your execution for the murder is tomorrow. All the best that I speak to you today.”

“D’you mind kindly telling me, who the fuck are you?”

“I will tell you if you are more polite.”

“Fine, then. Who the bloody hell are you?”

The man sighs in impatience. “I am General Selbourne. And it would do you wise to speak with a respectful tone towards me. After all, I am the one who will decide how much pain you experience in this room.”

Even Zoltan knows when to stop being a wise arse. “I see. What do you want, then?”

“Last evening, we found wares in the Mister Parviz Nowak's shop. Or rather, under it, hidden and protected with traps. And the wares inside were of…illegal status. Dangerous, magical items. Among them, some were missing. Furthermore, the body of Mister Parviz Nowak disappeared last night.” He stares at Zoltan. “What do you know about this?”

The body is gone? “First I’ve heard of this. Don’t know nothing about any magical wares. And it’s not like we could’ve stolen a body while we were stuck inside a jail cell.”

“That is what I thought you might say. Just as how you have claimed to be innocent, despite the murder weapon found in your inn.” The general sighs. “You see, Mister Chivay, there are two ways we can do this. Either you tell us where the illegal items are, you tell us who else is working with you and stole the corpse, or I can ask Officer de Wetten here to extract it from you rather painfully. Now, I prefer the more civil way – I detest how the smell of blood seems to embed itself into my clothes, it is very unpleasant and takes many washes to get rid of the stench. But what would you prefer? You said you prefer to stand rather than sit, so I am not so certain anymore.”

Well…shite. They’re going to torture him until he gives them an answer – a made-up answer, since he doesn’t have a fucking clue about these supposed magical items or who stole the corpse. He’s going to have to think of something, something believable, and quick.

A scream scrambles his thoughts, coming from the room next to him. A very pained scream, and then a shout in a very recognisable voice. “Bastard!”

“Ah, they have already started on the bard.” General Selbourne shakes his head. “Officer van Flaut is always quick to do that.”

Zoltan clenches his fist. This is going to become a lot harder. They didn’t rehearse a story beforehand. All the Nilfgaardians’ll have to do is compare confessions, and they’ll realise they’re both lying.

“Well…” Once more, he strains against the ropes. At the very least, he should stall for time. “I’m willing to talk.”

“Oh?” General Selbourne raises his eye brow.

“But first I’d like to clarify one last time. Me and Dandelion didn’t kill Parviz –”

The soldier punches him in the face. Twice. Pain rushes to Zoltan’s left eye, and he can feel blood welling up on his bottom lip.

“Oh, so we’ve jumped straight to the torturing after all, then?” He spits blood onto the table.

“No. That was a warm up. A warning, for testing my patience. Are you going to tell us or not?”

“Well, as I was trying to say before I got rudely interrupted, I have heard rumours about Parviz and his wares.”

General Selbourne narrows his eyes. “And what…rumours might these be?” 

“Well, before you lot arrived and took over Novigrad, there were these other fellas in charge.” All the while he talks, he strains against the rope. But he’s not having much luck. “Church of Eternal Fire. Wasn’t a big fan of them myself. Bunch of racist pricks – so thanks for killing them all, actually.”

“Get to the point.” General Selbourne says tiredly.

“All right, all right. Anyway, they had this habit. Whenever they arrested a mage and burnt them at the stake, they’d rifle through their house and steal all their belongings. Then they’d set up these auctions and sell them all. Got meself an owl from one of those auctions, called her Poppy – then it turned out she was actually a sorceress –”

“You are testing my patience.”

“Point is,” he continues hastily, “they wouldn’t sell the _magic_ stuff. They’d keep it for themselves, or destroy it. Anyone having those possessions on them would be arrested too, even if they weren’t a mage themselves. So, that’s where Parviz stepped in. He would get his hand on magical items, and sell ‘em on the sly, without the Church ever knowing. If you wanted something magical, and you didn’t want to get executed, then you’d go to Parviz.” He doesn’t actually know if this is true, but if the bugger really was hiding magical wares down in his shop, he can easily put two and two together.

“As for this missing corpse of yours – I have no clue. You sure you didn’t just make a mistake? Accidentally bury it or something?” He can’t just falsely incriminate another person.

General Selbourne stares at him, scrutinising and impossible to read. Does he believe Zoltan? Or does he know it’s a whole load of bollocks?

“…Go and see how Officer van Flout is getting on.”

Officer de Wetten nods, and leaves. General Selbourne remains silent, writing down notes on the paper. Zoltan decides against saying anything snarky. No point aggravating him.

When the soldier returns, he kneels down and speaks quietly – though not quietly enough. Zoltan can still hear him.

“He has not said much, sir.” The soldier reports. “Only that he is innocent, that Parviz was in money problems, and that he doubts Parviz sold anything as of late.”

Zoltan tries not to breathe in relief. Nothing Dandelion has said contradicts Zoltan’s own story.

General Selbourne considers this. “…Hm. Keep the bard in there, for the time being. Turn out the lights, let him be completely alone in the darkness. Officer van Flout can leave, if he wishes. Make him uncomfortable. Let him drive himself to worry, see if he changes his mind when we next speak to him. Come back when you are done.”

“Yes, sir.” The soldier leaves.

“And what about me?” Zoltan asks. “Are you planning to do the same?”

“No, I am not.” General Selbourne stares evenly at him, entirely unbothered. “I will start by ripping out your fingernails, to see if that changes your tune. For I think you are lying.”

“You think I’m lying? Don’t make a habit of lying to the people who literally have my life in their hands.” Zoltan spits blood again, feels it spilling down his chin.

“This is what I think, Mister Chivay. I think you killed Parviz – not just for the competition, but because you knew about his illegal wares. You broke in, and you stole some of the artefacts. Now, you have either hidden them, or you have sold them. And, for whatever reason, you hired someone to steal and destroy his body – perhaps to hide some evidence we missed on his person.”

Zoltan grits his teeth. He could just make up a location, but one quick check and they’ll know he’s lying.

“So, I will start with your fingernails. If you still do not want to tell me, I will take a few of your teeth. From there on…Hm. I am not sure. I could call on Philippa Eilhart, perhaps she would torture you for me…” Shite. He has no doubt she would after he tried to feed her crackers and called her Poppy. “I might flog you, I might gouge out your eyes…I really do not know. I hope that you will have cracked by then, to save me the effort – and to save my clothes from the smell. At the very least, hearing your screams might frighten your friend into giving us new information.”

“You’re one fucked up whoreson, aren’t you?” What should he do? What should he _say_? What should –

The ropes come loose.

Zoltan tries to hide his surprise. He can’t believe it. They’ve just…slipped away from his wrists, onto the floor. As if cut by a dagger. How…Was he really struggling that hard?

He must have; there’s no other explanation. No time to think on it anyway.

The door opens, and Officer de Wetten returns. “I have carried out your orders, sir.”

“Good. Let us start.”

Zoltan has no time to think. He just acts on instinct.

Officer de Wetten approaches to untie him, and then presumably to start torturing him. But he doesn’t know Zoltan’s hands are already untied.

So when he gets close, Zoltan grabs the hilt of his sword, head butts him, and pulls the blade out of its sheath.

“Stront!” The soldier stagger back, then looks up in rage. “How the hell did he –”

Zoltan drops the sword – no point going down for actual murder – and picks up the chair instead. He swings it at the soldier’s face as hard as he can. The legs splinter and break, and Officer de Wetten falls back on General Selbourne, who was just bolting for the door. Zoltan punches the soldier in the face. Twice. The first punch had already knocked him out, but he couldn’t resist.

Pinned under the soldier, the general tries to wriggle out and push off the dead weight. Until Zoltan punches him in the face, too. He is knocked out very quickly.

Breathing hard, wiping the blood from his lips, Zoltan stares down at the unconscious Nilfgaardians.

“Bugger.” He rubs his forehead. “They’ll fucking hang me for this.”

How did the ropes come loose?

No, no time to waste. He kneels down by the unconscious general, and fishes the keys out of his pocket. Then he grabs a torch from the wall and stands by the door, listening carefully. He can hear no one walking in the hallways. Good.

As quietly as he can, he pushes open the door. Still no sign. So he steps out into the hallway, finds the door adjacent to his own torture chamber. It takes him a few tries to find the right keys, but eventually he’s able to unlock the door.

The room is pitch black, all the torches extinguished, so he quickly lights them with his own.

“Zoltan?”

He looks over to the far wall. Dandelion’s arms are chained above him, high enough so his arms are forced to stretch. His right hand is a bloody mess, and Zoltan can spy something that looks disgustingly like fingernails on the table.

“How…How did you –”

“Let me free you.” Zoltan undoes the shackles. Dandelion rubs his wrists in relief.

“Thank the gods. I don’t know what they’d have done next…How did you get free?”

How did the ropes come loose?

“Long story short, managed to knock them out.” Zoltan says briefly instead. “Come on. We need to get out of here, trust that Regis, Yennefer and Ameer take care of the murder matter while we have ourselves a grand old time as fugitives. I have an idea on how to get out – I knocked out one of the soldiers. If you put on his armour, you can pretend that you’re escorting me out or something.”

“A marvellous plan. As it happens, my Nilfgaardian accent is rather convincing.”

They return to Zoltan’s torture chamber. Neither the soldier nor the general have stirred, still off in dreamland.

But there’s a pile of rope on the table.

“Perfect!” Dandelion grabs it. “We can tie them up!”

That rope definitely wasn’t there before. But Zoltan doesn’t say anything.

“…Take off his armour first. I’ll help you.”

Quickly, they strip the soldier, then tie both the Nilfgaardians up. Dandelion puts on the black and yellow armour – it’s a little big for him, but hopefully no one will notice.

“Ok. If anyone asks, say that we’re…I don’t know, you’re going outside to beat me, or that someone wants to speak with me.”

“Right. And I’ll say that they’re still interrogating me.” Dandelion adjusts the helmet on his head. “How they bear wearing these things with the stupid wings, I’ll never know…” For a moment, his face falters. A spark of sadness. He stares mindlessly into the air.

“What is it?”

“…Never mind. I was just thinking about someone.” He shakes his head. “We’d best get going.”

Together, they leave the torture chamber, but before they try to navigate the twists and turns of the prison hallways, Zoltan hesitates outside one of the locked doors.

“That wanker Gerenal Selbourne saw this door opened, got real antsy about it. Must be something important inside.” He says mainly to himself, taking out the key ring. It’s easier to find the right key this time, since he’s already identified which ones open the torture chambers. And when he unlocks the door, his persistence is rewarded.

Inside the room, there are piles of reports, documents and maps. No doubt of investigatory importance. But that’s not what interests Zoltan. On the table is a worn leather bag, threads frayed on the top and dirtied on the bottom. He recognises that bag, though it’s missing the yellow and black silk scarf that was normally tied to it.

This bag was used by Tye.

Quickly, Zoltan grabs it and opens it roughly, almost ripping the bag in his haste. A coin purse, a shaving razor, a small mirror, a map. No time to search through it properly. The Nilfgaardians must’ve swiped it when they searched his room.

“Take this.” He passes it to Dandelion.

“This is Tye’s, isn’t it?” Dandelion stares at the bag in his hands as if it were a rotten fish.

“Aye. Maybe Yennefer can use her magic to track him with this.” And when they find the bastard, Zoltan will be more than happy to cut him down.

Closing and locking the door again, to delay the time when the Nilfgaardians realise someone’s stolen their evidence, they continue down the corridor. Zoltan walks in front, with Dandelion close behind as if apprehending him. Occasionally, they’ll hear footsteps and freeze in their tracks, but each time the footsteps fade, leaving them undisturbed.

“I think we’re getting closer to the cells.” Zoltan whispers. “We’re bound to run into a guard at this point.”

“We’ll be fine. As long as we don’t look nervous – you don’t know how many times I’ve gotten into places I shouldn’t just by acting confident and like I belonged there.” Dandelion whispers back.

Slowly, they walk into the hallway, back to the rows of cells. Again, Zoltan hears the whispers of other prisoners as they pass.

“That didn’t last long.”

“Do you reckon he squealed? He must’ve done, right?”

“Where’s the other one? The bard?”

“Maybe _he_ squealed. Seems more likely.”

“Maybe he didn’t survive the interrogation?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. And it wouldn’t be the first time, either.”

Right at the end of the corridor, two soldiers guard the exit gate. And even though Dandelion tries to pass through, entirely confident, they stop him. Bugger.

“Halt. Why are you not returning the prisoner to his cell?” One asks.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Dandelion’s accent is a bit…forced, but not entirely unconvincing. “I am to escort the prisoner to Philippa Eilhart. She wants to…speak with him herself, see if she can’t get more information out of him.”

“Why do you need to take him out?” The guard frowns. “Why not just have her speak to him in here?”

“Oh, you know what sorceresses are like. Philippa insisted we bring him out, she doesn’t want to enter the prison. Says the place is unsanitary, will ruin her clothes and the like.”

The guard nods knowingly. “Right. Carry on then, Officer de Wetten.”

Officer de Wetten? Zoltan bites back his surprise as the guard allows them to pass. Did this guard really just mistake Dandelion for another known guard? Bloody idiot. Though he keeps his trap shut. The plan is going astoundingly well so far, and he doesn’t want to fuck it up at the last second.

The next chamber is filled with even more guards. Still, Dandelion saunters through with his supposed prisoner. Ahead of them, the main gate out of the prison is tantalisingly close. Freedom is a step away.

Of course, they don’t get through entirely unbothered. Guards question Dandelion now and then, but when he gives them his answer about Philippa, they drop it.

Until they reach the door.

There it is, just begging to be pushed open, when the final guard steps forwards.

“Halt. Where are you taking the prisoner?” This one is older than the others and looks more weathered. He’s far taller than Dandelion, with much more bulk to his muscles too. Zoltan can see a grizzled scar over his left eye. Zoltan doesn’t know much about Nilfgaardian hierarchy, but this man’s armour looks different to the rest of the guards – more intricate, yet also more damaged. He reckons the man must be a commander.

“To see Philippa Eilhart. She insisted we meet outside this prison, calls it barbaric and unsanitary.” Dandelion complains.

However, the commander frowns. “Eilhart? I thought she was in Novigrad.”

Oh…shite.

“Well, she _was._ But she can teleport. She teleported over.” Dandelion says quickly.

The commander doesn’t look convinced. “I have heard nothing about her arrival in Oxenfurt. Are you certain of this request?” His unscathed eye narrows. “Did General Selbourne give you clearance for this?”

“Of course.”

“Where is he? I would like to speak to him.”

Knocked out bloody cold and trussed like a turkey in the torture chamber. Well, so much for this escape attempt.

The door suddenly swings open.

“Commander Declan! A basilisk is attacking!” The soldier pants. “We need back up! We cannot let it reach the square!”

Commander Declan stiffens, then turns to the other soldiers. “We need to go! Grab your weapons! Get ready for battle!”

All around them, the soldiers spring into action. Well-organised chaos, typical of soldiers being called into a fight. None pay any attention to Dandelion and Zoltan.

And none pay any attention when they slip out the doors.

Zoltan had expected to feel elation and joy at being released from the prison. Feeling the sun on his skin, the breeze on his face like a woman’s caress, the clean fresh air as opposed to the stench of that damn prison.

And, he does feel that, a bit. But mainly, he is horrified by the scene in front of him.

The basilisk swoops and screeches in front of the prison, spitting acid at its attackers below it, evading bolts and arrows with ease. Occasionally, it lands down to lash out at the soldiers with its sharp tail and beak before taking flight again, giving them a close up look of its ugly face and red eyes. The soldiers are screaming battle cries, fighting with great strength, but so far they haven’t laid a single scratch on the monster.

But now, the guards aren’t watching the entrance. All are too occupied with the basilisk to notice anyone sneaking out.

“Come on, let’s go!” Zoltan whispers. He hasn’t seen a basilisk in a long time – the species is nearing extinction, and he hadn’t heard of them living so close to a city before – but he certainly doesn’t want to go through the experience of fighting one.

They run from the prison, down back alleys and cobbled streets. At first, Zoltan is tempted to run through the crowds, take advantage of the protests the guards constantly complained about, but decides against it. Seeing Dandelion in the Nilfgaardian armour might goad a protester into starting a brawl, and he doesn’t want to ditch the armour yet – it might still prove handy. So they avoid the crowds, constantly looking over their shoulders. In the background, he can still hear the screech of the basilisk. What good timing! Impossibly good timing. Unbelievably, suspiciously good timing.

“Where do we go? As soon as the Nilfgaards realise what we’ve done, there’ll be a sizeable bounty on our head.” Dandelion points out.

“Horses.” Zoltan decides in a split second. “We need to find some horses, run into the forests, hide out there.”

“Can we grab some bandages on the way out?” Dandelion grimaces. “This gauntlet is filling up with blood.”

“We’ll see what we can find.” Thankfully, there isn’t much need for stealth. Any nearby civilians have fled from the basilisk, and most of the soldiers are preoccupied with fighting it.

At last, they reach the Nilfgaardian outpost, crouching down behind a pile of crates filled with supplies. Five horses are still tethered to a post, eating their hay and pawing the ground. Almost entirely empty; all the soldiers gone to fight the basilisk. Except one.

“That’s the bastard who ripped my fingernails out!” Dandelion hisses furiously. Every time he moves his hand, his face becomes etched with pain.

“I’ll happily take him out, then.” Zoltan looks around for a make-shift weapon, until he glances again at the scene.

The soldier, Officer van Flout, is standing on the other side of the stables. And he’s not alone. A pretty lass, shapely and small with raven black hair reaching halfway down her back, stands with him. She’s bare foot, and wears a simple, revealing white dress.

“I cannot.” The soldier seems enthralled, but disappointed. “I am on duty. If they found me here with you, I do not want to think of what might happen!”

The lass pouts. “I thought you were adventurous…I wanted someone adventurous for my first…never mind.” She shakes her head bashfully. “Never mind. You are right. I will take my leave.”

“Wait!” He grabs her by the wrist. “Wait. How about…we move somewhere else? If they see me gone, I can say I heard suspicious noises and went to investigate.”

The lass smiles. “Oh, what a clever idea! I know a place in the woods we can go.” She takes his hand, and begins to lead him towards the forests., towards a field full of flowers. The soldier follows her giddily, blindly –

And falls into the river.

He shouts in surprise, landing with a splash. Zoltan himself can barely believe it. The lass has vanished into thin air, as if she was never there to begin with. How did that soldier fall into the water? How did he not see the river in front of him? But…Neither did Zoltan. It looked as if the lass was going to lead him across a flat of grass, filled with daisies and other flowers.

“What on earth just happened?” Dandelion stares blankly at the scene too. He rubs his eyes, as if it might suddenly make sense of what they just saw. But it doesn’t.

“Never mind, let’s grab some horses and go!”

The splashing soon grows noisier. And a guttural snarl comes with it. Zoltan peers into the river, though he doesn’t need to see the source of the noise to recognise it.

Before he has a chance to decide whether to pull the soldier out, or even attract his attention to the danger, the drowner pounces. Grabs the Nilfgaardian with its claws, drags him down before he can even scream.

And the water turns red. The soldier doesn’t resurface. Only the helmet bobs to the surface, spinning in the currents.

Unsettled, Zoltan takes a step back. “We need to go.”

Dandelion watches the red stain grow in the water with a grimace. “I’d be more sympathetic, but he did torture me, promised me lots of horrible ways to make me suffer –”

“Something isn’t right here, Dandelion. We need to go.” Zoltan runs to the stable and begins untying the reins of a white mare with brown dapples from the post.

“What do you mean?” Dandelion follows him, though his movements to free a chestnut mare are much slower, thanks to the gauntlets and his injuries.

“Something cut the ropes on my hands. We go back, and suddenly there’s rope on the table that wasn’t there before. That door to the room with Tye’s bag – it wasn’t meant to be open when we passed. Those other soldiers thought you were their comrade. A basilisk – a bloody basilisk! – decides to attack just outside the prison, just as we’re trying to escape! Now this. Something’s not right.”

Dandelion frowns. “That’s unnerving, but…what are you implying?”

“Someone’s watching us.” Zoltan looks over his shoulder. “A mage or some other magic-user, it has to be. I’d rather not stick around.”

“But, if someone has been watching us, they’ve been helping us.” Dandelion points out. “Shouldn’t we be glad?”

Zoltan hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose…But who?”

“Yennefer can make herself invisible.” Dandelion remembers. “Could she have snuck in?”

“If it was Yennefer, she’d have made herself known when the task was finished, told us what to do – or just teleported us out.” Zoltan retaliates. “Can Regis go invisible?”

“Well, yes, and he can turn to mist…But Regis wouldn't be able to resist talking to us, either. And didn’t he run off with that elf, Ameer? It looked like they had a lead. Besides, that trick with the girl…I don’t think Regis could do something like that. What about Ameer? He said he could do magic, right?”

Zoltan hears shouts, nearing the barracks. Soldiers are coming this way. Time to go.

“We can figure it out later.” Zoltan drags the horse away from its hay. “Let’s get out before the Nilfgaards catch up with us.”

From the forest, a flock of birds fly upwards in a panic. White light shines from somewhere in the undergrowth, brilliant and blinding.

“Gods, what is it now?” Zoltan shields his eyes against the light.

Dandelion’s eyes widen in disbelief as he stares. “Is that…”

Something is growing from the light. Something huge, humanoid, and green.

It continues growing, bulky and blocky in size, and only stops when it towers over the tree tops. No face, no eyes or nose, not even any skin.

“Dandelion, is that…” Zoltan wipes his brow. “Is that a golem? A giant fucking golem?”

Dandelion stares at it, horrified. “…I believe it is, Zoltan.”

The golem doesn’t stand still. Slowly, it begins to walk forwards, moving the trees apart like corn or long grass. With each foot step, the very ground quakes.

Zoltan quickly realises the creature is heading to Oxenfurt.

Well, bugger.

“We need to warn people!” Dandelion suddenly exclaims. “We need to warn the protestors!”

“I think they’d see a bloody giant golem riding towards them!” Zoltan argues.

“Maybe, maybe not! The square is in the centre of town, surrounded by houses! They might not see it until it’s on top of them! We need to go!”

“That’s a fair point.” He mounts his own horse. “Let’s go then!”

As fast as they can, they ride back to the centre of town – back to the masses of soldiers dealing with protests, who know both Zoltan and Dandelion to be supposed criminals. But this is too important.

“How should we get them to leave?” Dandelion whispers hastily as they get close. “We can’t exactly shout ‘giant golem’ into the crowd – it’ll cause a stampede for sure.”

“You’re right about that.” People already look nervous about the sudden onset of tremors. The protests have stopped, no more angry shouts, but it’s not quiet. People are chattering anxiously, clutching each other when another quake ripples through the crowd. “If they panic, they might end up killing each other – then it won’t matter if the golem comes. We’ll have to speak with one of the soldiers.”

“I’ll do it.” Dandelion readjusts the helmet. “They fell for my accent the first time, maybe it’ll work this time too. Or maybe our invisible friend will help us.”

They ride to the closest Nilfgaardian commander. “Sir!” Dandelion salutes. “We have spotted a giant golem coming from the east causing the quakes! It’s heading right for the city! The entire crowd must be evacuated, or everyone will get crushed!”

“Excuse me?” The commander demands. “Have you been drinking on duty?”

“Don’t dilly, start evacuating!” Zoltan interjects without meaning to. “Get on with it! And keep people calm or they’ll stampede, kill each other in the process!”

“Who are you?” The commander demands once more, looking at Zoltan. “You’re not a soldier – why are you riding one of our mounts?”

Well, shit. Zoltan grinds his teeth in frustration. These bloody Nilfgaards! Certain death is heading for them and that’s all he can think about?!

Another soldier runs over, face pale and sweating. “S-Sir! A-A giant golem approaches the city!”

Another quake ripples through the city. This one is far stronger than the others. Tiles begin slipping off buildings and plummeting to the ground. One lands and shatters right next to Zoltan. The citizens of Oxenfurt begin to scream.

The commander looks between Dandelion and the soldier, suddenly quite pale. “I do not understand, but if you are _both_ saying it…” He turns and begins barking orders to his subordinates. “Guide the locals towards the western gate! Make sure everyone stays calm and orderly! Do not let anyone try and gather their belongings, get them out now!”

Soon, the soldiers begin herding the protesters away from the square. This time, none of the local Redanians utter a single complaint.

“Thanks.” Zoltan sighs. “If you hadn’t backed me up –”

But the soldier is gone. Vanished into thin air like a man’s promise to his wife.

“Dandelion, let’s go.” He shouts, forcing aside his nervousness. “Before the soldiers realise who we are.”

Riding the opposite direction to the fleeing civilians, they return to the Novigrad gate. Already, startlingly fast, the golem is almost at the city.

But, much to Zoltan’s relief, he can see the golem is facing away from the city. Rather than walking west and trammelling Oxenfurt, it’s diverted its course south. Something must have distracted it, enticed it over there.

“Oh, thank fuck.” He wipes his brow. “Not much but fields and forests in that direction.”

“Good.” Dandelion sighs in relief. “Geralt has fought golems plenty of times before. As long as they’re not aggravated, they won’t attack or charge.”

Unfortunately, the Nilfgaardian soldiers stationed at the bridge don’t seem to know this.

Zoltan doesn’t even get a chance to feel horrified before they start firing arrows and catapults at the golem.

Of course, they make as much difference as a fly battling a fiend. But now, the golem is enraged. It shrieks deafeningly and starts slowly turning back to face the city.

“You idiots!” Zoltan shouts, riding over to them. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Fire again!” The commander orders, not paying Dandelion or Zoltan any attention. His face is pale and sweaty as he stares at the monstrosity in front of him.

“Stop! Stop it now!” Dandelion shouts. “You’re not causing it any damage, you’re just going to make it charge at us! Everyone will die!”

Terror and impending death aren’t enough to erase the commander of his haughtiness. “Who are you? What do you know about monsters?”

“My best friend is a witcher, you imbecile! Golems only attack when they need to, and when they charge, they can’t stop! You’ve just doomed us all! You’ve doomed everyone in this city!”

The golem is facing the city again. Only the river separates it from the isle. How long will it take for it to cross? A minute? Thirty seconds? Ten?

“We’ve got to go.” Zoltan grabs Dandelion’s arm. “Or we’ll die.”

“Wait. I can see Yennefer!” Dandelion points across the river bank.

Before Zoltan can look for her himself, the golem screams. It covers its head defensively. From what? There’s nothing there.

And it begins to move again. The very action makes the Nilfgaardian soldiers cry out in fear. But, to his surprise, the golem starts to turn. This time, it faces north and begins walking once more, still covering its head, occasionally swiping out at something invisible. Yennefer must have done something. Maybe she bewitched it?

The Nilfgaardian commander, though he’s probably shat himself in terror, turns angrily to them.

“Who do you think you are, coming here and giving me orders –”

“You should be thanking your lucky stars that we’re not all dead right now!” Dandelion argues back. “The golem was walking away from the city, and you thought it would be a good idea to attack it? You made less impact than a child’s wooden sword! If it had charged, we’d be dead along with every other man, woman child in the city – I’ve met drunkards passed out next to brothels who are less foolish than you!”

“Dandelion, shut up. We need to go!” Zoltan mutters under his breath. Even with all this golem chaos, they’re still fugitives. Any of these soldiers could recognise them.

The commander, though, looks sheepish. He takes off his helmet and bows respectfully.

“What should we do, Commander Declan?” He asks.

Dandelion glances at Zoltan in surprise. Commander Declan, the grizzled man who almost saw through their ruse while escaping the prison, is far larger and beefier than Dandelion. Even armour shouldn’t be able to disguise that.

Hiding his surprise, Dandelion haughtily stands up straight. “Dismantle the equipment. Don’t give the golem any reason to attack the city. Then go and help with the evacuations. There’s only one bridge out of Oxenfurt, and people are going to hurt themselves in their panic to get out.”

The commander salutes, and begins shouting order to the rest of the soldiers. None of them look disappointed to be abandoning their fight against the golem, and begin dismantling their weapons.

“That was the work of whoever’s been helping us, wasn’t it?” Dandelion guesses quietly as the soldiers work.

“I think you’re right, Dandelion.”

Dandelion looks at the golem. “Geralt said that golems are meant to be glorified bodyguards or sentinels. They only listen to whoever summoned them. But this one just looks as if it’s wandering around. Maybe it'll stop after a while?”

“It can do plenty of damage just by wandering round, though.” Zoltan points out. “There are plenty of villages on the way who won’t have Nilfgaardians to help them evacuate.”

“Say not another word!” Dandelion kicks his horse with the stirrups. “_We’ll_ help evacuate! That thing is big, but slow – we should be able to outrun it with our horses! Let’s be off!”

Zoltan turns his head, looking at the Nilfgaardian soldiers scrambling with their catapults and weapons, some running to the city centre to help with the evacuations, none having the faintest thought of two missing prisoners with such a monster wreaking havoc –

And then he sees her.

She stands on the other side of the river, amid a real meadow and real daisies. Watching the Nilfgaardians shout and curse and order each other around, with something of amusement. Then she watches Zoltan. More beautiful than anyone Zoltan has ever seen before.

A she-elf. One from Ofier, no less. Her long black hair cascades down her shoulders to her lower back, meeting a dark blue dress that swirls in the wind and a thick fur coat draped over her shoulders. Completely calm, completely unbothered by the giant golem stomping around. Her bright green eyes watch Zoltan intensely. Not hostile, but…curious, almost. A smile dances on her full lips.

And around her, sit three sandy fox cubs. Watching Zoltan with those same green eyes.

“Zoltan! Come on!”

Zoltan looks to Dandelion. “I’m coming!”

When he turns back, the she-elf is gone. Like she was never there.

The invisible help. The illusions. Appearances of fair lasses and basilisks alike.

Was that…Could that have been…

Zoltan shakes his head, kicks his horse, and gallops after Dandelion. He can think about that later.

Obviously, there’s something much bigger to deal with right now. Much, much bigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The little intro paragraph is from the Fox Children comic.
> 
> Also, fun fact: When I was writing this chapter, there were so many character names to think of that I was lazy and just gave all the Nilfgaardian soldiers pokemon names - which meant that I was super scared that I'd accidentally left one in when I uploaded this lmao


	21. Giant Slayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! My course has been really busy recently so I haven't had much spare time for writing :(  
Some brief book spoilers in this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

_"Golems are mindless matter brought to life by a spell. They obey their creator's orders without question. Their boundless strength, ability to withstand pain, endless patience and the fact that they need not one jot of food or drink makes them the best servants or guards anyone could ask for. Once provoked, they will not tire of battle until they have either crushed their opponent or themselves crumbled to dust._

_Golems use no weapons, for they have no need – their fists, weighing over a hundred pounds each, can crush solid granite with one hit. A blow from a golem should thus be avoided at all costs – there is no shield that can stop it, nor sword that can parry it. That is no easy task, for these creatures are able to move with surprising speed. Luckily, their enormous mass means they are not very agile – once a golem begins a charge, it cannot stop quickly, a fact experienced witchers use to their advantage." - the Bestiary on golems._

Regis or Ameer?

Yennefer only has seconds to choose.

The golem is growing bigger and bigger, the noise of the transmutator unbearable and unending. Filip stands by the cave entrance. His finger is no longer on the transmutator, but the golem continues growing regardless. Confused and quickly beginning to panic, he frantically presses the buttons on the transmutator, to little avail. When he locks eyes with her, he throws the transmutator on the ground where it breaks against a rock, and runs desperately from the clearing. She doesn’t chase him.

For to her right, Regis lies on the ground clutching his ears painfully, the closest to the source of the noise. To her left, Ameer kneels on the ground by the forest’s edge, trying desperately to block out the noise with his hands.

The golem is growing, and neither Regis nor Ameer can move, both incapacitated by the noise and their enhanced hearing. The golem will continue growing, and crush them like beetles. She only has the time to help one, drag one to safety.

Regis or Ameer?

Choose, quickly.

The image of a vampire screaming in Castle Stygga, being burnt and melted into a column by a mad and sadistic mage, plagues her mind.

But she chooses Ameer.

As the crystals grow, she runs to her old friend, grabbing his arm and dragging him to his feet, through the forest and away from the clearing. No matter how terrible Castle Stygga was, she cannot forget that Regis is a higher vampire. Even if this golem crushes him, he can – and will – regenerate. Ameer, despite his own unnaturally fast recovery, couldn’t survive such a devastating blow.

She trips over a tree root, bringing both herself and Ameer to the ground. The golem stops expanding only centimetres away from them. But she doesn’t stop. Scrambling to her feet, she continues running, dragging Ameer to his feet and forcing him to run even further. She hears a terrible, inhuman roar behind them. The very ground beneath their feet begins to shake, almost tripping them up again. Then comes the cracking of branches, the felling of trees, and booming footsteps beginning to fade. Only then does she stop.

Breathing hard, Ameer can barely keep his balance. She holds him up, stops him from swaying precariously and falling down again. “Ameer? Ameer, can you hear me?”

He winces, touching his ears tentatively. He doesn’t respond to her question.

She taps his cheek gently, catching his attention, and repeats the question slowly and loudly. “Can you hear me?”

He squints at her lips, and slowly nods. “Barely.” He says loudly. “There is a…a ringing in my ears…” He looks around, sees the fallen trees. “What…What happened?”

She doesn’t explain. Instead, she takes his wrist and hurries him through the forest, back to the clearing.

“Regis!” She calls out. “Regis!” Is he not responding because he’s been deafened? Or because he’s been crushed to a pulp of shattered bones? She tries hard to banish the image from her mind. Unsuccessfully.

And so, when they run back to the clearing where the bodies of endregas are flattened, when she sees Regis sitting on the grass unscathed, the relief she feels is astounding. Overwhelming.

“Regis!” She shouts again, even louder. Even so, he still doesn’t turn. And as she approaches, she quickly realises he isn’t entirely unscathed.

He’s clutching his left leg, face grimacing in pain. Yennefer looks – and has to turn away quickly. Grisly wounds and dead bodies, she’s seen plenty on the battlefields of Sodden Hill, mages and infantry men alike torn apart by vicious spells and sharp metal. And yet, she doesn’t want to look at his wound for too long.

From his knee down, his left leg is entirely flattened. Crushed thinly, staining his trousers with blood and tearing it with shards of bone. Like a grape crushed beneath the blade of a knife. A beetle trodden on with heavy boots. It almost looks unreal, fake, which somehow is what drives Yennefer to look away.

That doesn’t stop her kneeling down beside him. “Regis, are you all right?” She shouts. “I’m sorry. I should have – I had no choice. But I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

He touches his ears lightly, and his finger is stained with blood when he withdraws it. “I can’t hear you.” He shouts back to her.

Damn it. How long will his ears take to mend? They need to discuss this terrible and unexpected new scenario, and make a plan of action.

“I tried to crawl away.” He continues. “But I didn’t manage to completely clear myself from its stepping zone.”

“What happened?” Ameer asks her again, looking around the flattened clearing and the felled trees in weakly disguised dread. “What caused this?”

“Filip had a Zerrikanian transmutator.” Yennefer tells him bitterly. “He summoned the golem, then made it grow large. Very large.” All this time, Bedlam kept on saying ‘transmutators’. Plural. And yet it never occurred to her that Panther, the murderer, would have one too. He mentioned that the transmutators don’t work on organic life forms like food. But a golem is entirely inorganic, crafted from magic and rock - or in this case, crystal. “But it must have gotten jammed. He couldn’t turn it off, so he just threw it against a rock and ran.” Now, the complex contraption has been reduced to snapped metal and loose cogs. Yennefer has no notion on how to fix it, so using it to reduce the size of the golem once more is no longer an option.

Ameer curses – first in Ofieri, then in Elder speech. “Cac diabhal fuilteacha!” A very colourful string of swear words. That’s a phrase she hasn’t heard before.

“It will go to the towns.” She can already feel the blood draining from her face. “It will wander, drawn to the greatest noises. Even if it doesn’t attack, it will trample everything and everyone.”

“Where is Filip?” Ameer looks around the clearing. “Only he can stop it now.”

“Filip is gone. The bloody idiot ran, I had no time to stop him. And he isn’t a mage, he won’t know how to give it orders, let alone stop it or deactivate it.” There wasn’t any magic in him, so someone must’ve given the golem to him – or he stole it. “Even if he wanted to stop it, I doubt he’d know how.” Whatever colour was left in Yennefer’s face must disappear completely as she says the words. She turns to Regis, calming her pace so he can read her lips.

“You won’t be able to kill it. Your claws won’t be strong enough to break that crystal. You won’t reach its vitals.” In this rare instance, a mighty higher vampire will be as much help as trying to tickle the monster to death. “I have to kill it.” Golems are resistant to all manner of things, including fire. Their main weakness is acid, which Yennefer doesn’t particularly have an abundance of on her person. But magic will have more of an impact than his claws.

He frowns in confusion, trying to understand her but failing. “…Yennefer, I don’t think I can bring down that golem. My claws will barely scratch the surface of that crystal. Thanks to the transmutator, it will be too thick.” His face is grim, pained, uncertain. “You must bring it down. I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

He didn’t hear a word she said, but he understands nonetheless. Yennefer finds herself feeling relieved, somehow.

“I will go after Filip.” He continues. “He can’t have gotten far. I’ll find out what he knows about Tye, bring him back to the Nilfgaardians, finish this foolish smuggling nonsense once and for all. I trust you will deal with the golem in the meantime.”

“Good plan.” Ameer begins to run from the clearing. “Come on, Yennefer! We have to hurry!”

Regis watches him go with a concerned expression. “Yennefer. The medallion. We cannot let the medallion anywhere near that golem.”

Yennefer nods solemnly. Ameer isn’t going to like it, but she’ll have to convince him to leave with any other evacuees. The thought of having to fight that golem by herself isn’t exactly inspiring, but she doesn’t have any other choice.

She stands up, ready to chase after the monstrosity, when Regis grabs her hand. He hesitates, avoiding her gaze for a moment. Then he locks gazes with her, pleadingly.

“Please. Be careful.”

Now Yennefer hesitates. But why? It’s not as if she’d say, 'no I won’t be careful'. He isn’t stopping her from going to fight the golem. He’s not doubting her in any way. Ameer’s words ring in her ears. There’s no shame in a friend worrying about her.

So, once more, she nods. To tell him, yes, she will be careful. She has no intention of dying today.

At this, he looks relieved. But there’s no time to sit and talk about their feelings. Leaving Regis to regenerate his leg, she runs through the forest, using the path of flattened vegetation cleared by the golem.

As she runs, she tries to strategize. Maybe she should blow the Skelligan horn, call for back up to help? No doubt the Skelligan warriors would happily fight against such a beast, and having Ciri here could be useful. But she decides against it. The Skelligan warriors would make little difference apart from perhaps distracting the golem, and she can do that herself. Even Ciri’s power might not help that much. And she doesn’t want to call her daughter to this dangerous situation. No, she will have to manage this alone.

When she finally exits the forest, it doesn’t take her long to spot the golem. The normally pleasant landscape of a city on the water, surrounded by fields and hamlets, is marred by the giant green beast protruding on the countryside. Like a blotch of ink on a beautiful painting.

Ahead of her, Ameer has stopped running. He stands, frozen, staring in horror at the golem with wide eyes. “Oh…That is far bigger than I was expecting.”

They’re a good few miles away, but the golem will take a maximum of ten minutes, if not less, to reach the east border of the city. When the golem reaches Oxenfurt, it will undoubtedly destroy it as easily as a child kicking over sand castles on the beach. Even the might of the Nilfgaardian army will do little against a foe like this. Worse, everyone is at the square for the protests – if, by some miracle, there’s time to evacuate the square before the golem arrives, people will easily crush each other to death in their panic.

“Ameer,” she doesn’t look at him, “I think you should stay back. Let me handle this.”

She can feel his sharp gaze on her immediately. “What are you talking about?”

“If you pass out from over-exertion, you could get killed. You and Geralt.” The medallion around his neck is terrifyingly vulnerable. “I might not be able to help you. We can’t risk that happening.”

“Are you serious?”

She glances back at him, and isn’t surprised to see the anger in his face. “I can handle this, Yennefer.”

“In the caves with Gwenllian –”

“I can handle this.” He repeats firmly. “I am not a child. You know I am powerful.”

“But Skellige has weakened you, Ameer. _You_ know this. We could both die, very easily. This isn’t a game.” Yennefer says bluntly.

His fist clenches. His eyes burn, matching her gaze evenly. “I am sick of being weak. I still have pride, and I will not be cast aside when I can still be useful here. Neither will I hide away like a coward when there are so many lives in danger, and when I can actually do something.”

“Ameer –”

“I am not going to attack the damn thing with a sword, Yennefer – I can cast spells and illusions from afar. And I will help, or there will be _no_ hope in stopping it. Do not try and convince me otherwise. I will help, and that is final.”

Yennefer sighs, a strange mixture of relief and frustration. There’s the Ameer she knows. Proud, loyal, determined to do what needs to be done, no matter what. But she still worries: worries he may faint like he did in the caves; worries about the fragility of the medallion around his neck; worries what will happen to Geralt should something go wrong.

…But he’s right. As much as she hates to admit it, he’s right. There’s no way she can control or defeat the golem by herself, especially with so many lives at stake. She needs all the help she can get. _Sorry, Regis,_ she thinks. _I’m sure you’d come to the same conclusion yourself, no matter how much you’d protest as I have done._

“Fine. First thing’s first, we need to drive it away from Oxenfurt.” An idea comes to her. “Can you tell it to stop? Bewitch it?”

To her dismay, Ameer shakes his head. “I have tried bewitching golems before, and I get nothing but blankness in response. I think because it is inorganic – more like machine than like monster.”

Yennefer bites back her frustration. “I suppose that makes sense. Golems only obey the ones that created it, and we didn’t. We’ll need to force it to change its course some other way. If we get it to turn around, then goad it into charging, it won’t be able to change direction, and it’ll miss Oxenfurt.”

“Which direction? Should we get it to turn around the way we came? Go east?”

“No, that’s where Filip is. And we cannot let him die, or this all will have been for naught. There are more residences to the north than the south.” Cartsen and the Vegelbud estate among them. “And it will start trying to reach Novigrad, I can guarantee it. The rivers probably won’t stop it either, since it’s so big. We’ll have to drive it south.”

“Good idea. I can distract it with illusions – but this is too far away. We need to be closer.”

“Fine.” Yennefer opens a portal. The golem may have a head start, but they can catch up quite easily. “But we can’t get too close. Remember, you’ve got Geralt’s soul around your neck.”

Ameer nods curtly. “I know, I know. I won’t get too close.” He slips the medallion beneath his clothes. A very minimal form of protection, but it’s better than nothing.

Together, they step through the milky portal, and are transported near to the outer isle of Oxenfurt. Instantly, she almost quails at the size of the golem. Up close, it’s almost as big as a cathedral or watch tower, looming less than half a mile away and moving with surprising, horrific speed. The eastern isle of Oxenfurt is being slowly cast in shadow as it gets closer. Like some terrifying false eclipse.

All around her, she sees fleeing villagers, having abandoned their houses at the sight of the approaching golem. Most are running on foot. The horses have broken their posts and fled; their strength is fuelled by pure fear. She sees that some of the houses have even collapsed from the shock waves of the golem’s footsteps.

One villager almost crashes into them. “Run! Get out of the way, it’s gonna trample Oxenfurt!”

He’s right. The golem is almost at the first bridge towards Oxenfurt, ready to walk onto the path to the Novigrad gate. She can see the Nilfgaardian soldiers fruitlessly setting up their catapults and trebuchets as it edges closer. Even if the weapons were going to make the slightest bit of difference, there’s no way they’ll have the equipment set up in time.

“I’m going to open a portal and distract it –” She begins, but Ameer shakes his head.

“No, save your energy. Illusions are safer. I will hide the real you – where would you like the distraction to stand?” He asks.

“Over there.” She points further down along the river bank, a good distance from the city. She can feel her palms sweating from underneath her gloves. This is a terribly risky gambit. “Make sure it’s either running parallel to the river bank – _perfectly_ parallel – or it’s angled slightly away from the city. Even the slightest degree towards Oxenfurt means the golem won’t run in a straight line, and it’ll charge directly into the city. If that happens, we’ve just committed mass murder.” Angle too far away from the city, and the golem will charge towards the forests where Filip is. They’re walking on the knife’s edge. There’s no room for mistakes.

Ameer nods, and moments later, a perfect replica of Yennefer appears. Angled slightly away from Oxenfurt, but not pointing towards the forests.

Inhaling, focusing her energy, she summons purple flames to dance on her palms, vicious and eager to burn. Her illusory replica does the same, except the flames are superficially bigger, dancing higher and brighter to the point her own hair would be singed.

“Now, Yennefer!” Ameer shouts.

Spreading her palms out and pushing her hands forwards, she releases the flames, sends them flying up towards the golem. They collide with the creature’s smooth, crystallin shoulders and hip. Both explosions make not a single dent, though they leave behind scorch marks on the polished surface. Deafeningly, the golem screeches. With agonising slowness, it turns to see the Yennefer illusion still holding the leaping, vivid and conspicuous purple flames. Its approach to the city stops abruptly, and it faces away from the metropolis.

Before it can charge, she feels Ameer grab her arm. He chants quickly in Elder Speech, and seconds later can no longer feel the ground beneath her feet. Her and Ameer’s bodies are glowing vaguely with green magic.

When the golem begins charging, she realises his reasons for levitating them. The entire ground shakes with each stomp of the golem’s feet. More thatched houses collapse. The water of the river churns and froths. She sees tiles in Oxenfurt slipping off the roof, sees birds taking to the skies in fright. Those shock waves could have been enough to break their bones at such a close range.

The golem rushes towards the illusion. When its giant feet begin to lower down towards her, the illusion vanishes before it gets crushed. But the golem doesn’t notice, continuing to charge, unable to change its course – a typical behaviour of golems. It’s running along the river bank parallel to Oxenfurt, missing the city entirely.

But just as quickly, it slows to a halt. Strange. Golem’s normally have infinite stamina. Maybe this one is just too big, it’s armour just too heavy. Perhaps they can use that to their advantage.

Right now, though, it still poses a big threat. Even after that charge the golem remains standing well within Oxenfurt's range, much to her dismay. And now that it’s stopped charging, it could change direction again.

She feels her feet touching the ground again, Ameer lowering them gently down as he ends the spell. But Yennefer shakes her head urgently.

“Ameer, we need to do that again.” She tells him. “We need to make it charge again and again until it’s completely away from Oxenfurt.”

Ameer doesn’t get a chance to respond. The entire body of the golem is suddenly pelted with boulders, huge crossbow arrows, and other useless weapons.

None of them inflict any damage whatsoever. But the golem feels them. Enraged, it screeches once more. Yennefer clamps her hands over her ears.

“Shit!” Is the only thing she can say.

For the Nilfgaardian soldiers have taken it upon themselves to attack the golem. In the nerve-wracking chaos of trying to make the golem change direction, she forgot about the soldiers encamped on the outer isle of Oxenfurt. Like fools, they’ve opened fire on the golem.

Their assault hasn’t made a single difference – except to enrage the golem and entice its attention back to Oxenfurt.

“Ameer, hide Oxenfurt!” She shouts frantically, watching as the golem slowly begins turning around to face the city.

“Are you joking?” His face is piqued with horror, and he shakes his head emphatically. “Even a true Fox Mother could not make a whole city disappear!”

The golem is almost facing the city now. “Well, we’ve got to distract it some way!” She begins channelling energy in her hands, ready to blast the creature with more flames in a bid to try and catch its attention. But what will it respond to? One fire spell, two maximum if Ameer joins in, or a non-stop tirade of catapult and trebuchet ammunition?

Ameer’s eyes suddenly light up with an idea. “Let me try something!”

His gaze focuses upon the golem, upon the city of Oxenfurt. The air shimmers with indescribable colour.

A cliff face appears.

The city of Oxenfurt is no longer visible. Neither are the Nilfgaardian soldiers. Neither is the river, for that matter. Everything has been blocked from view by cliffs that tower above even the giant golem.

Of course, this cliff face isn't real. But the golem doesn’t realise this. It stares blankly at the cliff, any anger it previously had vanished and replaced with confusion.

She sees Ameer smile in relief. His plan has worked. What had he said in those caves?

_“It is easier to paint a black mark onto an art piece than it is to paint over the black mark, make it fade into the background. That is the same as illusions.”_

Hiding the city itself was impossible. Disguising it with something else was far more manageable.

“Right, get ready to cast an illusion of me again. Once we drive it further down south, we can start engaging it in battle more easily.”

Unfortunately, the golem does not give them that choice. It decides to turn of its own accord – but instead of turning south, it turns north.

“No! Go the other way, you stupid golem!” Ameer shouts. Of course, he isn’t expecting the golem to listen, simply channelling his panic into frustration. A far more manageable emotion.

Getting it to turn around _again_ is just too risky. It’s already been a struggle to make it stop facing and marching towards Oxenfurt. They’ll simply have to deal with this new complication, try to vanquish the golem before it destroys anymore homes or, gods forbid, reaches Novigrad.

They’ll also have to get very quickly out of the way, for the golem is now walking in their direction.

Instantly, Yennefer opens up a portal. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Help!”

The voice catches Yennefer’s attention. It’s coming from one of the collapsed houses.

A young girl, wearing farm-worn clothes, stands in front of the door to what was a thatched house. Her trousers are darkened with urine, and tears run down her face.

Yennefer runs over to her. “What are you doing here? You need to leave, run far away.”

“M-My sister.” The girl sobs. “The-The big monster came and-and our house started shaking and it’s all broken and she’s stuck and she can’t get out and everyone left us behind!”

Shit. Yennefer glances into the ruined house, destroyed by the shock waves of the golem running. She can see the sister – conscious, generally looking unharmed, but most definitely trapped underneath the wooden beams of the house.

“I’ll help you, darling. Don’t you worry.” She reassures the girl, then grasps one of the beams. “Can you walk? Can you move your legs?”

The sister, her face completely pale with fear, nods. “I-I think so.”

Quickly, Yennefer realises the beams are far too heavy for her to move. She casts a levitation spell on them instead, carefully cycling her hands to move the beams without hurting the sister any further.

“Quickly, Yennefer!” Ameer starts helping her. His face is ashen with worry. He’s thinking the same thing as she is: that every second they stay here, the closer the golem gets. The closer they become to getting crushed to death.

But to abandon a civilian here, doom her to a terrifying and helpless wait for a gruesome death, is too appalling for either of them. So they work together, levitating the wooden beams, trying not to let their urgency and panic get the better of them.

But it’s infuriatingly slow work. All the while, the golem makes its approaching presence very clear. A shadow looms over them. The ground trembles, sending vibrations through Yennefer’s whole body, as it gets closer. The more shock waves it sends off, the harder it is for Yennefer to move the wooden beams.

They’re not going to free the sister in time. She realises it with shocking, nausea-inducing suddenness. If they stay here, all four of them will die.

The sister must realise it too. Her face has gone blank with shock, yet tears stream down her face.

Shit, shit, shit! Yennefer can barely concentrate with the shaking ground. But she still can’t bring herself to leave just yet.

With one hand, she opens up a portal. “Ameer, take the girl and go.” This way, Ameer can be safe, Geralt can be safe, and one civilian can be saved. Yennefer will wait until the last possible second to abandon the sister.

The young girl does not take this news well. She throws herself down by her sister.

“No! You have to get her out!” She screams.

“Go through the portal, Tilly. Go on.” The sister manages to say with a shaking voice.

“No! I won’t! I won’t!”

The golem is so close now. She can see the scratches upon its chest from the Nilfgaardian assault, the singe marks from her own blast, with terrifying acuity. It’s beginning to raise its foot again, ready to tread down on the ruined house where they all stand.

“Ameer, get through the portal!” With horrible certainty, she understands that her efforts to help these sisters have been for naught. If she can’t save them, she can’t save them. A terrible, hard truth. She hates herself for it, but she also knows that she has no choice.

Next to her, Ameer swears loudly. He abandons his efforts with the wooden beams and faces the golem.

He holds his hands up, palms outstretched in front of him, and begins chanting. Once again, his whole body glows with a gentle green light.

But this time, he doesn’t levitate himself. Instead, the glow begins to concentrate at his hands. Begins to channel into a beam of swirling light. Like water shimmering under the shadow of aurora. His eyes, too, begin to glow, the colour of luscious green leaves.

The light hits the sole of the golem’s foot. A battle begins to take place: Ameer’s force of levitation against the strength of the golem. His spell is temporarily paralysing the golem’s foot, preventing it from stepping down on the house.

Yennefer is about to shout at him, tell him to get in the portal, that the golem is so clearly going to win this battle of endurance.

But something changes.

Yennefer isn’t sure exactly what. It’s something that she senses more than she sees. A change within him. A change of power. Something inside of him is snapping, and yet at the same time blossoming. Where once she could only sense his magic as being weathered and restrained, now she feels it bursting at the seams. Drowning his entire body.

He pushes his hands out more strongly. The light in his eyes becomes almost blindingly bright, the stream of magic from his palms becomes even more powerful. The golem tries to reiterate with its own strength, tries to force its foot down, but is trapped in place by Ameer’s resistance.

How? How on earth…No time to think about it. Yennefer continues moving the wooden beams again. Without the stomping of the golem to distract her, she can work far more quickly.

When all the wooden beams are gone, she hauls the woman to her feet, who instantly almost topples over in pain. It looks like her leg is broken.

Yennefer reopens up the portal. “This’ll send you to the hospital in Novigrad. They can help you.”

“Thank you!” The woman clutches her young sister. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Go.” Yennefer ushers her into the portal. The second they’re gone, she summons another portal – this one will simply take them to the ruined fields behind the golem.

“Ameer! Get ready!” She shouts, holding out her hand towards him.

Ameer breathes deeply. He pushes the spell even harder towards the golem, forcing the foot further back by just a few feet.

Then he drops the spell. The stream of magic vanishes.

The golem’s foot comes crashing down towards them. Ameer sprints to Yennefer, grabbing her hand. She yanks him into the portal, and all but throws herself inside.

She lands on the other side, tumbling on the grass. In the distance, she sees the golem standing on the house, having reduced it to splinters.

“Are you all right?” She calls over.

When she glances at Ameer, she sees that he’s…fine. Completely fine.

Whereas before he looked so fatigued, his face pained, his whole body shaking with exhaustion…Now, he looks fine. He simply sits on the grass, looking down at his own hands. He’s breathing hard, but other than that? Nothing. Just surprise. Confusion.

He looks up, gaze searching across the fields. What is that on his face? Recognition? Something that makes his eyes widen in disbelief. Something that makes his face light up in delight. Yet when Yennefer follows his gaze, she sees nothing. Strange.

“Ameer, are you all right?” She repeats.

“Yes. Yes. I apologise.” He quickly stands up.

“How on earth did you –”

“Adrenaline.” He replies. “My survival instinct kicked in.”

Yennefer finds herself not believing him. But he offers no more on the matter, and this is not the time to ask. The battle’s far from over yet. But they’ve succeeded in one mission: diverting the golem’s path from Oxenfurt. Now, they need to figure out a way to destroy it quickly, before it ends up knocking on Novigrad’s doors.

“Ameer, what offensive spells do you know?” Yennefer asks. The golem is lumbering slowly ahead of them, and she is more than content to follow at a cautious pace.

“Fire spells mainly. Perhaps levitation.” His magical repertoire revolved more around healing – and, of course, illusions. “What about you?”

“Fire, lightning, and other explosive forces. I don’t know how much damage they’ll do, though.” Her purple flames barely made a difference on its crystalline body.

“So, what do we do?”

“We keep casting, over and over again until it tires. I’ll rely on you to keep it contained, trick it with illusions if you can.” 

“But it is so big! And it has such thick armour, we will barely make a scratch! What if you tire before it does?”

She grits her teeth. He’s right. That colossal beast currently has the thickest armour of any living creature in the land. She could be casting lightning bolts and fireballs at it all day without it tiring, while her own stamina depletes.

“Then I’ll need to cast a big spell. I suppose…Alzur’s Thunder might be enough to cause damage.” A powerful lightning spell, created by the famous mage Alzur. “Have you heard of it?”

“Yes, I think so. Will you be able to cast it? I know of no mage who has succeeded other than Alzur.”

“Truthfully, I don’t know.” She admits. When she and Triss tried to cast it in Rivia, their lack of power, even combined – and more importantly their injuries that interfered with their diction – made the spell go wrong. Hailstorm worked just as well on humans as lightning would, but in this instance it would have very little impact on the golem. “But it’s the only spell that might make even the slightest difference. We’ll need to get much closer if I want any hope of hitting it, though.” A delicate distance is needed: not too close that the shock waves will hurt them, but close enough that her spells will be in range.

She stands up, preparing to cast another portal –

And jumps when she feels something brush against her hair.

Yennefer turns to see two horses standing behind her. One is black, the other a yellow dun. The black mare nuzzles her hair, whickering softly. Despite the rampaging golem, they both seem most calm. They must be horses belonging to one of the villagers in the area, for they both have saddles and reins, and there are no wild horses near Oxenfurt.

But why are they still so close to the golem? Surely they would have fled along with the villagers, as far from the golem as possible. These aren’t war horses, just simple farm horses. They won’t be bred to be more fearless in the face of violence.

“Oh, horses! Excellent!” Ameer doesn’t share Yennefer’s suspicion, and quickly mounts the yellow dun. “Come, Yennefer. We can catch up in no time with these.”

“Good idea.” She doesn’t voice her surprise, and mounts the black mare. Together they begin to ride after the golem, following the large circles of flattened grass that run parallel to the river as the creature walks.

“I shall keep them bewitched so they do not flee or throw us.” Ameer shouts to her as they ride. Indeed, the horses remain completely unperturbed at the sight of the golem. But it doesn’t explain what caused them to be fearless enough to approach the golem so closely in the first place – Ameer clearly didn’t summon them. Not that Yennefer is going to complain. They begin gaining ground easily, allowing them both to save their energy instead of running or casting portals. Yennefer can use the ride to clear her mind, start focusing her attention on the complexities of Alzur’s Thunder. It’s been such a long time since she’s even attempted the spell. Can she remember all the right words? All the correct hand gestures? What if she can’t remember all the details? What if it fails? What does she do then?

“Hey, Yennefer!”

She slows her horse at the sound of the familiar voice, and turns to see two other horses racing towards them. Both steeds plated with metal barding, she spies first someone in Nilfgaardian armour, and then a dwarf.

“Dandelion? Zoltan?” She exclaims in surprise. “What are you doing here – how the hell did you get out of prison?”

“Long story.” Zoltan looks grimly at the golem. “Where the bloody hell did this big bugger come from?”

“Long story.”

“We’re here to help evacuate.” Dandelion steadies his horse. “There are plenty of houses and villages on the way to Novigrad. Have you figured out how to stop this thing?”

“It’s a work in progress.” She looks again at the golem. “I might have to try a spell, but I don’t want any nearby houses to be destroyed if that thing charges again. What’s the nearest residence?”

“That’ll be Carsten.” Dandelion tells her. “I’d say we have no more than 5 minutes before the golem reaches it.”

“What can we do to contain it?” Zoltan peers up at it. “I doubt an axe’ll make much difference.”

“Continue evacuating. Needless to say the Nilfgaardians will focus their efforts on protecting the cities, damn be the villages that get trammelled in the process. Don’t let the villagers waste time in collecting belongings. When you finish, and if we haven’t killed it, get to the city and tell them not to engage the golem anywhere near the city itself. Take a group of soldiers, attack it a safe distance away, try and goad it away from Novigrad. Otherwise it will charge, and then there’ll be no stopping it.”

“Got it. You focus entirely on bringing down the bugger.” Zoltan kicks his horse. “We’ll handle the evacuations, so don’t you worry about that.”

“Good luck – don’t let that thing crush you!” Dandelion rides after Zoltan. His confidence and Zoltan’s battle experience means they should be able to gain the trust of the villagers, who are no doubt waiting for soldiers to help. Dandelion’s Nilfgaardian armour, wherever he got it from, will make the civilians listen to what they say, believe them to be the authorities. She can only hope that they’ll manage to evacuate the first houses in time.

Now, she looks to Ameer. “Casting Alzur’s thunder is going to be difficult. It would help if we could get it to stop moving. I know that levitation spell will be too energy-consuming for constant use – is there any way you could get it to stop by utilising your illusions, if bewitchment won’t work?”

He hesitates, thinking hard. “I think so. I cannot stop it permanently, but my trick with the cliff face worked. I think I can slow its path.”

“Good. You distract it in whatever way you can, and then I’ll try Alzur’s thunder.”

Together, they hurry their horses, following the obvious beacon of the giant golem up ahead. The closer they get, the louder its footsteps, and the more the ground trembles. Beside her, Ameer’s face is taut with concentration, keeping the horses calm.

The golem makes to step forward again – but is suddenly halted by a huge brick wall in its path, reaching up higher than its own head. Growling, it tries to turn to the left – only for another wall to appear. Snarling in frustration, it swings its lethal arms across both walls, which flicker out of existence.

But Ameer is not fazed. He conjures another wall instantly, and when the golem knocks it down, he conjures yet another. Swiftly, they both reach a stalemate; Ameer constantly conjuring illusory walls, the golem constantly knocking them down. But it stops the golem from charging forwards lethally, distracting it enough for Dandelion and Zoltan to race ahead.

No time to waste. She has to kill it before Ameer begins to fatigue. Yennefer races closer to the monster, though not daring to get too close to its feet. The horse is beginning to panic, Ameer concentrating all his effort on his illusions instead of bewitchment. She has to be quick.

Closing her eyes, she begins the incantation. Slowly and carefully, trying not to trip over the complex diction. She says it as loud as she can, trying to mimic the deep, booming voice of Alzur. She channels as much energy as possible from the cold air, through her body, dancing at her fingertips. As she chants, the clouds begin to grow darker, swirling around above the golem’s head. Her heart racing, she controls her pace of speech, watching the clouds get darker and darker, the sound of thunder rippling through them.

But the thunder spooks her horse. In Ameer’s intense concentration, he loses his bewitchment over it. The mare whinnies and canters in circles, agitated and startled. Yennefer almost loses balance and slips up the last incantation. Instead of a flurry of lightning bolts, devastating and explosive, one single fork of lightning streaks from the sky. Her horse rears, and Yennefer can barely remain on its back, cling on tightly enough to its neck to stop herself from getting bucked off. The lightning bolt lands on the golems back, sending crackles of electricity across its body. The golem stops swinging, stunned by the jolt.

But only moments later, it continues its barrage against the walls.

Her face falls. “Shit!” Fatigue is already beginning to creep into her mind and muscles. She wasted so much energy on that spell, and it’s barely caused any damage to the golem.

Calming her horse, she rides back to Ameer. “It didn’t work. I don’t know what to do.” She doesn’t have the energy to attempt the spell a second time.

He’s beginning to look tired, too, from the non-stop illusions he’s casting. If not for those walls, Yennefer dreads to think how much ground the golem might have covered. “Is that your strongest spell?”

“I don’t think even my strongest spell would make much difference. I’ll have to keep on hitting it repeatedly to wear it down, crack that crystal. And if it comes down to a test of endurance, I don’t think I’ll win. That thing has rivers of stamina.”

“And I cannot keep on casting these illusions forever. What else can we do?”

Her mind scrambles for an idea, intruded by the bellowing of the stupid golem. How can they kill it? How can they kill a creature so big, so heavy and well armoured?

The idea comes to her, quite suddenly and quite succinctly.

“We have to make it fall over.” How did she not think of this? Now that she has, it seems so blatantly obvious. “Its height and weight will generate enough force in the fall to make the crystal crack. At the very least, it will be too heavy to try and get up again.”

Ameer smiles, tired but hopeful at this new plan. “Brilliant. I shall continue distracting it. Hurry as fast as you can.”

Riding closer to the rampaging golem, she tries once more to channel the energy of the air around her. She can see rubble beneath its feet – even with Ameer’s distractions, the golem has moved steadily forwards and destroyed more houses. She can see no bodies though. It’s only a small relief; Ameer’s illusions cannot stop it forever. This new plan has to work, or else Novigrad is doomed.

No. Don't get distracted. Focus on the task at hand. Magic flows through her, and she channels the energy into a strong gale of wind, flowing out from her hands. The gale sweeps over the grass, towards the golem’s ankles. But no matter how hard she channels the wind, a wind that could easily knock over thirty men, the golem barely sways.

“Damn it!” No, she can’t lose her grasp on this idea, they have nothing left. How else can she make the golem fall?

A portal. If she could cast a portal on one of the golem’s feet, that would certainly make the golem fall over and injure itself. But the portal would have to be large, much larger than the ones she normally casts, to disrupt its balance.

She has to try. She has no other ideas on how to defeat it.

Futilely trying to calm her panicking horse, Yennefer approaches the golem as close as she dares, and channels her energy towards creating a portal – to the middle of the ocean, where no harm will be caused.

But the golem takes a step back as it swings its arms, and Yennefer has to gallop away before it stands on her and kills her. When she’s retreated a safe distance, she looks back to see the portal is barely a quarter the size of the golem’s foot, having had no time to channel her energy into a bigger portal. It sticks out from under its sole, not causing the slightest imbalance.

Yennefer bites her lip. This time, she remains a good distance away from the golem, and casts the portal a little further away from the golem, allowing her the time and energy to create a big portal without being trodden on. But when her portal finally finishes growing on the ground, big enough to trip up the golem, it simply sidesteps the milky void and continues attacking the wall. Damn it, damn it, damn it! How the bloody hell does she make this bloody golem stand on her bloody portal without it bloody standing on her?

Wait, does she have…Quickly, she searches through her bag until she finds the small bird skull Ameer gave her, carved with glimmering runes and pulsating with magic.

“Ameer!” She shouts to him. “I’m going to use this!”

Ameer looks at her, face still etched in concentration. “Where do you want to teleport?”

“Not me. The golem. If I throw it, say the words, will you be able to teleport the golem?”

Ameer thinks about it. “…I do not know. I think so. Maybe.”

“Well, we’ll have to try. When I throw it and say the words, I need you to teleport it towards the portal. In the meantime, distract it further.”

He understands her idea and nods. Soon, it’s not only walls appearing in front of the golem: basilisks fly over its head, screeching and cawing, spitting acid at the golem. At this, the golem shields itself furiously, protecting itself from the acid – its only vulnerability.

Yennefer approaches carefully. Not too close, for she doesn’t need to be this time and doesn’t want to get stood on. 100 metres away from the golem, the boundaries of the spell. She bites her lip hard, almost drawing blood in her intense concentration. A void of iridescence opens up on the ground, growing larger and larger the more she focuses her will. The golem avoids the portal, but is too distracted by the basilisks to try and stomp on Yennefer.

Now, she gets as close as she dares. Her horse resists, chewing the metal bit as hard as it can, tugging at the reins, eyes bulging in fear, but she forces it closer.

She waits until she is only 20 feet away from the golem, frighteningly close. Then she arches back her arm, and throws the skull as hard as she can.

The skull is miniscule next to the giant golem. And the second it hits the crystal, as the skull shatters on impact, Yennefer shouts as loud as she can:

“Naql lana beyda ean alkhatar!”

For a moment, she isn’t sure if she pronounced it correctly. But as the skull shatters into pieces, it begins to glow a deep blue. And that blue begins to spread, across the golem’s body. Up over the legs, torso, all the way to the head. It shines brightly, Ameer’s face taut as he concentrates…

And it disappears.

Only 100 metres away, the golem reappears, landing so heavily the ground shakes sickeningly.

And its foot falls into the portal.

Startlingly fast, the golem loses balance. It flails its arms wildly, trying to regain its posture, to little avail. Yennefer can see ocean water lapping up by the golem’s feet from the portal, spilling onto the fields.

At last, the golem falls.

But Yennefer only has a second to see its horrifying quick descent, the chunks of crystal glinting blindingly in the sun.

Because she loses her grip on the reins. Scared by the earthquake-like tremor unleashed by the golem’s landing, the horse bolts. The shaking causes Yennefer’s feet to slip from the stirrups, and she finds herself falling from the saddle, landing, rolling on the grass. She sees a disorientating mix of sky, earth and golem.

Digging her nails into the soil, she rights herself. Moves her hair out of the way. And she sees the arm of the golem falling towards her. Fast. Too fast. She hears Ameer screaming her name.

And then something grabs her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't quite remember what the original translation for Ameer's earlier Elder Speech was, but I think it was along the lines of "shit fucking damn it" or something equally as eloquent lmao


	22. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book spoilers ahead!

_“We were in the heart of the Empire, and as I’m sure you know, Geralt, in Nilfgaard mages who behave like that either drop their bad habits quickly or are drawn and quartered by horses in the middle of Victory Square.” – Letho describing Nilfgaard’s harsh punishments. _

In the end, it’s faster for Regis to simply cut off his injured calf than wait of the mess of flattened flesh and crushed bone to heal.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t painful. Yennefer and Ameer have left the clearing, going to fight that colossal golem, though Regis couldn’t make out a single word that either of them said. His ears ache painfully, but it’s nothing compared to his leg. Biting down on a broken branch he manages to grab from the path of destroyed forest, he shifts his hand into claws and with one precise, surgical strike, he cuts off his leg.

Such wounds are never pleasant. He bites down hard enough to splinter the wood to as instantly his wound, midway on his calf, starts cascading with blood.

But just as quickly, the wound begins to heal. The blood stream trickles to a halt, and flesh, bone and skin steadily begins to rebuild itself.

A caw from the trees catches his attention. Tatanu circles the clearing once, then warily flies down, landing on Regis’s shoulder. No doubt he’s startled by the sudden appearance of the golem, and by the state of Regis’s leg.

_I need you to find the smart man._ Regis is sure his pronunciation will be rather peculiar, owing to his temporary deafness, lack of concentration and body language, altered by the immense pain in his leg. _Find out where he went, and tell me. _

Thankfully, Tatanu seems to understand. He takes off from Regis’s shoulder, flying over the forest canopy in search for their fugitive.

As for Regis, he remains still a short while longer, despite his eagerness to go and search himself. Although there’s more substance to heal, his leg is recovering faster than his ears, most likely due to the tiny, unique and highly sensitive bones and conductive hairs in his ears that require more finesse to heal.

By the time his leg has rebuilt itself up to the ankle, Tatanu returns urgently. He’s cawing, trying to tell Regis something, but perhaps senses that Regis is in too much pain to understand his rapid and excited language. Instead, he lands on the grass, caws loudly, sets off a short distance and waits again. He wants Regis to follow him.

His foot is still in the process of regenerating, but he’ll have to manage without it. Turning into mist provides some relief from the pain, and also means he can follow Tatanu quickly.

Together, they fly through the damaged forest, back onto the main path. From within the undergrowth, he can’t see the dreaded sight of the golem lumbering towards civilisation. In his mind, he sees houses being trampled into rubble, bodies strewn about the grass, the city of Oxenfurt falling to pieces as the golem approaches.

But Regis resists the urge to go over and help fight the golem, banishing those images from his mind. Nothing he can do will help. He knows that. Vampires are not naturally evolved to fight golems, creatures that are the artificial, modern creations of mages. He can normally defeat them with brute strength alone, but one of this size…Even a Higher Vampire would be useless against one. True, he would survive. True, the golem couldn’t hurt him. But he would be powerless to stop it destroying the Oxenfurt, Novigrad and any other house or village it happens upon in its journey of destruction.

So, he cannot help. And he should stop thinking about it. In all honesty, he is terrified for Yennefer. If she's managed to persuade Ameer to stay out of the fight, then she'll be fighting that thing all alone. Going up against a foe that should not exist, one that could kill any human with a single flick of its fingers…Of course he’s saturated with dread and worry.

But he also knows that no arrows or swords could have any impact on this creature either. The might of Nilfgaard will be useless. Yennefer will be the only one with any chance of stopping the creature. 

Besides, he has a vital job to carry out himself. It is imperative that they find Filip, that he doesn’t slip through their fingertips after all this effort.

Soon, Tatanu begins to descend, and Regis follows him. Below him, he spies a hut with a collapsed roof – the herbalist hut, belonging to the halfling who he traded with. In fact, the halfling in question is standing outside his hut, looking very shaken and horrified as he watches the golem in the distance.

Carefully, Regis lands and rematerializes behind him, out of sight, before approaching. His foot still isn’t fully healed, and he decides to stand behind some bushes to hide it.

“Excuse me.” He calls out, louder than he intended to. Otto jumps, then turns around. He says something entirely inaudible.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t hear you. My ears are out of sort at the moment.” He gestures to them.

Otto walks over to him, and Regis leans down slightly to hear him better as the halfling speaks louder and more slowly.

“It walked right over my shop!” He’s able to make out, very faintly. “I thought I was doomed! But it missed, thank the gods. My roof is ruined, the rooms are caved in, and all my bottles have smashed on the floor! What a waste of goods – and I should still count myself lucky!”

“I’m looking for someone.” Regis tells him. “Four people may have passed here with a horse and wagon. Two men, a she elf and a half elf boy.”

“I saw them.” Otto nods. “The two men were arguing bitterly. They were veering off the path – I told them it’s not good to ride through the forests, that wolves live around here, but they didn’t want to be on the road for some reason.”

No doubt not wanting to risk running into Nilfgaardian soldiers. That must’ve been why they chose such a peculiar path that made them end up by the old Temerian hideout.

“Which way did they go?”

Otto points east, towards the forests. “Most people are fleeing that way.”

“Thank you. Be ready to leave at any moment – the golem could still return this way.”

When Otto returns to the front of the hut, watching the golem nervously and intensely, Regis turns back into fog and quickly begins his journey once more. Frantically, he flies back through forests, searching for any glimpse of the fleeing family, methodically going back and forth, flying in a grid-like pattern.

There.

With a surge of relief, he spots them on the forest path ahead. The horse is straining at its reins, no doubt panicked by the golem, Ameer’s bewitchment long since worn off. None seem to be harmed, though Lena is crying, and Barney is shouting at Filip.

Quickly, Regis descends and hides himself in the bushes. Despite being completely hidden, the horse senses him and rears in fear. Filip can barely hold on. For a moment, Regis is afraid the horse will bolt, and he’ll have to waste time chasing them, but at the last moment Filip calms it.

More carefully this time, Regis transforms back. His foot is finally healing, the last patches of skin coming together, and although there’s that irritating ringing in his ears, he can hear the sound of wind through the trees, of birds crying out alarm calls, and of two brothers arguing.

“We need to go back!” Barney shouts. “You need to turn that thing off!”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know how!” Filip shouts back.

“It’s going to destroy Oxenfurt! You were the one who made us pack our bags and leave our home because of this stupid smuggling nonsense! Barney, it’s too dangerous, you said. Barney, the Nilfgaardians might arrest us for murder, you said. Well, now we’re gonna get arrested for mass murder! For fucking genocide! The destruction of a city!”

“I didn’t mean to make it that big!” Filip protests. “I-I thought I could control it! I thought it would do what I wanted! But it just walked off! I don’t know how to make it stop!”

“Then why’d you summon it in the first place, huh?! It wasn’t necessary!”

“It was necessary.” Filip’s face darkens. “You don’t know higher vampires like I do. We wouldn’t have stood a chance against him.”

In the back, Lena is still crying. “Why did you get us involved in this, Filip? Why?”

His face falls. “Lena, I…”

Enough of this.

Regis steps forwards into the clearing. He must look a state – one shoe and his trouser leg ripped, the remaining fabric drenched in blood. His ears, too, have been bleeding, decorating his ear lobes and neck.

And yet, the very sight of him makes them all pale with terror.

“Don’t try to run.” Regis says tiredly. “You know as well as I that I can catch up in an instant.”

“Please, don’t hurt my family.” Filip dismounts the horse and steps forwards, though his body shakes like a leaf. “They have nothing to do with this. Please, let them go.”

“I have no intention of harming them, for they have nothing to do with this. But you and I are going to have a very long chat.”

“Please, you don’t need to do this –”

Regis grabs him by the neck. “You just unleashed a monstrosity that could kill countless innocent people. Let me tell you, I am not in the mood for this foolishness, so I would advise you not to test my patience.”

“No!” Barney stumbles off the wagon and throws himself on the grass by Regis’s feet. “Please! Don’t hurt him! My brother is a fool, but don’t hurt him, I beg you!”

Regis betrays no emotion in his face, shows only apathy, but in all honesty he was never going to hurt Filip, for finding out where Tye went is his first and foremost priority. Neither is he a man to torture, though humans are so fragile he would never risk that anyway.

Slowly, he releases his grip on Filip. “…Why do you care about your brother? This man who has caused you nothing but trouble? Who has just released a giant golem that might kill multitudes of innocent people?”

“It – it was never meant to go this far.” Barney still pleads on his knees. “He’s foolish, yes, but he was trying to help me. We were going through financial difficulties, I thought we were going to lose the shop, and then with those crystal necklaces took off so well, I didn’t even notice the extra funds coming in…I never would have imagined he was involving himself with drug dealers! He was misguided, and that golem – I cannot excuse that – but he was only trying to help!”

Regis folds his arms. “Well, your brother has one last chance to explain himself, to tell me where Tye is, or else I’ll kill him. It’s very simple. There’s no reason to cover for this man.”

“…Tye is powerful.” Filip is sweating. “He gave me that golem, he knows magic. I…If I tell you where he’s gone, he might come back and kill us!”

“Tye isn’t going to return here, because he knows we’re chasing him.” Regis says bluntly. “He wouldn’t risk coming here, being wanted by the Nilfgaardians for murder, just to kill you. Whereas I am certainly warming to the possibility myself.”

Filip swallows. “I…Fine. I’ll speak. But let my brother and his family go. Everything I did, I did for them. I betrayed my brother, stormed out in a childish rage, didn’t even come back when our parents died. But he forgave me, saved me from a life of homelessness. So I was willing to do anything when he was going to lose the shop. Even going to Bedlam’s gang. That was _my_ decision, and mine alone. They had nothing to do with this, they didn’t know anything about this, so let them go. Please.”

Regis narrows his eyes. “I’ve already told you, I have no intention of hurting your brother or his family. In fact,” he looks to Lena, “perhaps you should take your boy away from here. Hearing about his uncle’s crimes is perhaps not a good memory to have in his childhood.”

Lena nods shakily, taking her son in her arms and walking down from the wagon. She stops by Barney, kisses him on the cheek, then approaches Regis.

“I had my suspicions.” She tells him. “I thought we were getting too much money. And I know him – always wanting to take the short cut. Now, because of him, my family has to leave our home. But I love Barney. So I ask you, please. Don’t hurt his brother. No matter how idiotic he has been.”

Without another word, she leaves the clearing, the lad looking over her shoulder at the scene with both fear and confusion.

When they leave, Regis wastes no time in asking the most important questions.

“Where is Tye?”

Defeated, Filip looks up at him. “Why do you care about this man so much?”

“He poisoned my friend. My closest friend. He’s the only one who knows the cure. If I don’t find him, my friend will die.”

Filip closes his eyes. “He’s a dangerous man. Are you not afraid? He might even have something to kill a higher vampire like you. Or at least make you have to regenerate for a long, long time.”

The poison. Potent enough for Regis to cut off his own hand. “Whether or not I’m afraid doesn’t matter, for I will do anything to save my friends. Thus, I ask again, for the last time: where is Tye?”

Filip hangs his head. He is silent for a moment.

“…Velen. He’s gone to Velen.”

At last. At long last. The man they hunt, the man who poisoned Geralt…at last, they know where he is.

But he tries not to show the relief on his face, the overwhelming relief that this lead didn’t fizzle up into nothingness. He continues his interrogation.

“Why? Why Velen?”

Filip rubs his sweaty forehead. “…He approached me, days before the murder. When the Oxenfurt protests were beginning. He said he knew about…my involvement with Bedlam’s drug rings. Said he wanted in, demanded to be taken to him. I told him Bedlam would kill him for finding out, but he threatened to reveal everything to Barney and Lena. About my involvement with the drugs. I couldn’t refuse him. So I took him. Bedlam was ready to kill him on the spot, afraid he’d leak things to the Nilfgaardians, but Tye said he knew about our problem. And he knew how to fix it. He knew that Parviz had illegal wares under his shop too, just like Bedlam and I had suspected. And he told us, only he knew which magic artefacts would be useful for our mission. Bedlam asked what he wanted out of this. Some gold, but more importantly, his own pick from the artefacts in Parviz’s basement.”

Regis listens intently, says nothing. Filip swallows, unnerved by Regis’s silence, and continues.

“I asked him about it. What he wanted so desperately. And he said…he had powerful enemies. Magical enemies. Supernatural enemies.” He looks Regis up and down. “I now know he meant the likes of you, the sorceress and that witcher.” He must mistakenly mean Ameer. “He wanted something to hide himself, to stop people from finding him. But…what he got from Parviz’s shop wasn’t enough. So he told me he was going to Velen. To speak with a witch.”

“A witch? Who?”

“I don’t know. That’s all he said, I swear.”

So, he was seeking even more methods to hide from his pursuers…This is not good news. Tracking him down has been hard enough thanks to that necklace he stole from Parviz. If he gains even more magical ways to conceal himself…And who is this witch? Velen became a No-Man’s Land during the third Nilfgaardian war, or so Regis has heard. Unless the region has undergone significant…renovations in the four years of peace, what sorceress would want to live in there?

“What else did Tye say? I need to know every word, every interaction.”

“I don’t know! He was…anti-social, kept to himself mostly. And when he did speak, he seemed nervous. Could put on a show in front of Bedlam, but when I spoke to him, he seemed in a constant state of anxiety. Didn’t mention poisoning anyone. Just wanted to be in and out with the robbery as quick as possible, as quietly as possible. When…When things went wrong, he put the knife and bloody cloth in the Chameleon, left as fast as he could.”

“Where is he in Velen? I need a more specific location.”

“I don’t know, I promise you. I don’t know.”

Velen…A large region. But they’ll search it. They’ll find this sorceress. No matter how long it takes, no matter how hard it might be.

Barney grabs his brother and drags him away, retreating in fear. “Th-There. You’ve got what you wanted, you know where this Tye fellow is. Now please, leave us alone.”

Regis shakes his head, eyes hard. “I’m afraid not. You framed my friends. You’ve landed them in prison. I can’t let my friends be punished, especially for something they didn’t do. You and I are going to have a chat with the closest Nilfgaardian soldiers.”

“No! Don’t hurt him, please!” Barney begs.

“I’m not hurting –”

“You might as well be! You bring him to the Nilfgaardians, that’s as good as hanging him from the scaffold yourself! You know they’ll kill him! Hang him, behead him, or worse! They’ll rip him apart with horses for all this!”

Filip shakes off his brother’s grip, and steps forwards. He holds his head high, his gaze even, although he can’t hide the fear in his eyes.

“Do it. Just kill me now.” He says.

Regis frowns. “You were begging for your life a moment ago.”

“You heard my brother. If you bring me to the Black Ones, I’ll die anyway.” He says bitterly. “I’d rather die now. I’m less afraid now. I don’t want to be publicly executed. And if I get arrested, the Black Ones might come after Barney and Lena, might punish them. I can’t let that happen.”

“Why did you do it, Filip?” There’s tiredness in Regis’s voice. “All this chaos, all this danger, for what? Petty revenge?”

Filip grits his teeth. “I told you, it wasn’t meant to happen. He…He came back early. Unexpectedly. As soon as he saw me, he flew into a rage. He was drunk out of his mind. He was going on about Gwenllian and how 'even smoke couldn’t find his hidden compartment' – whatever the hell that meant. When I tried to calm him down, he accused me of being the cause of all his troubles – me! Even though he _fired_ me! I…I wasn’t so cordial back. He attacked me. We struggled, and he had a knife, and…I got hold of it. He was trying to stab me, I had no choice. But…I still killed him.” He closes his eyes. “So kill me now. Just, do it.”

“I won’t. I can’t. If you die, the Nilfgaardians won’t believe me when I say you killed Parviz.” There’s also Bedlam’s word, but he doubts they’d believe the anonymous statement of a criminal. “I have to bring you in.”

“No. You can’t.” Barney, stands in front of his brother. He grabs Regis’s hands. Regis, a higher vampire. Regis, who could kill him in a heart beat. He grabs Regis’s hands and pleads.

“I’ve lost too much. Our parents died. Aunts, uncles, cousins, all dead. Killed by the Church, killed by the invasions. Lena lost her sister, and countless others. This family has seen too much grief. Fredrick – I don’t want him growing up knowing that his uncle was executed. Please. I beg you. I’ll do anything, pay anything.”

Regis looks at him. Humans, obsessed with mortality, obsessed with survival. Why? Their lives are so fragile, it’s an inevitability. Why bother, why try so hard?

But Regis knows, despite their limited time on this earth, despite their lives that are destroyed so easily…He knows that he would have given anything, anything at all, to prolong the life of Geralt’s Hanse. He would have fought, and fought, and fought, been burnt alive all over again if needs be, to keep them alive for even a minute longer. He would have endured any pain. Any injury. In spite of their mortality. _Because_ of their mortality.

That is perhaps the closest Regis will come to understanding, truly understanding, the human drive for survival. Just as this man will take the hands of a vampire and plead with him to keep his brother safe. And just as that man would unleash a golem on the city to try and help his brother escape.

What should he do?

“…I cannot let you go.” Regis speaks up at last. “I have to save my friends. But…But perhaps I can help you.”

“Help me?” Filip regards him warily. “Why would you help me?”

“I don’t know. You certainly don’t deserve it, all the trouble you’ve caused.” Regis says sharply. “Perhaps…I pity you.” He’s certain the answer is more complex than that. But, right now, he is simply tired. He is tired and he does not want a difficult choice.

“How would you help?” Barney ignores the scathing remark.

“As you are most likely aware, I am a vampire. I can sneak you out of prison. You would live your life as a fugitive, but since you did commit the crime – and my friends didn’t – that is simply something you will have to suffer. Needless to say, it will be better than getting executed.”

“There is no need.”

As soon as Regis hears that voice, his fingers elongate into claws, his teeth sharpen into fangs. Entirely automatically. His shoulder suddenly aches, a reminder of his most recent stint with death.

He turns around, launches himself forwards, bringing his claws down.

Instantly, Gwenllian shifts her own claws, holds up her arm to protect herself from his swipe, her own face contorted.

“I do not want to fight.” She hisses.

“Why are you here?” Regis demands.

Gwenllian vanishes into blue mist, swirling around his feet, then retreats a safe distance before rematerializing. Barney watches her with fear, but Filip seems only surprised at her presence, no doubt already familiar with her secret.

She leans against a tree, back in her more human form, watching Regis carefully. “…I was in Novigrad. That beautiful sorceress came, looking for the murderer, and Bedlam gave her your name. I came here to warn you, tell you that Bedlam had sold you out, Filip.” Something of a smile plays on her lips. “Work friends should look out for each other, should they not? At first, I was worried I would not find you. Then, the giant golem emerged from the trees. That made my job a little easier.”

“What do you want? I’m bringing him with me to the Nilfgaardians. I’ll fight you again if I have to.” Regis glowers.

But Gwenllian holds up her hands, entirely calm. “I already told you, I have no desire to fight you. Living with humans has…hm, dulled my fighting prowess. Fighting you proved that. But I have a different proposition.” She steps forwards. “I will turn myself in. I will confess to Parviz’s murder. The Nilfgaardians will let your friends go, and Filip and his family can go free. Of course, I will escape shortly after, simply turn to mist and slip out through the prison cell bars. Even if they try to execute me, I will survive. This way, everyone can win. Correct?”

However, Regis frowns. “Why? Why are you offering to help? I don’t trust you. What do you want out of this?”

“You do not trust me?”

“Of course I don’t. The second I let Filip go, you’ll turn into mist and fly away. You won’t hand yourself in.”

She pouts. “You do not believe me. That makes me sad. But it is the truth.”

“And why is that?”

She sighs. “Perhaps…Perhaps I thought about what you said. After I had licked my wounds and eased my fury. And it is true. When I was a recovering addict, when my own brethren chased me away and tried to kill me, it was humans who showed me kindness and helped me. And yet, I spat in the face of that kindness. I helped sell drugs to vulnerable people. People just like me.” She looks to Barney and Filip. “When I arrived in Novigrad, when Bedlam took me in, some were suspicious of me. I am Nilfgaardian, after all. But this family was kind to me. Perhaps this is my way of righting wrongs. Perhaps this is my attempt at redemption.” She looks back at Regis. “Does that satisfy you?”

“You’ve certainly changed your tune, haven’t you?” Regis says wryly. “You’re suddenly very diplomatic, considering last time we spoke you tried to kill me.”

“And you tried to kill me.” Gwenllian replies evenly. “And that is why you can guarantee I will not trick you. I do not want to deal with another vampire trying to kill me. The ones back home are enough. Besides, even if I did, Filip would not get very far before you caught up with him.”

Regis hesitates. He still doesn’t trust her. He doesn’t trust her at all. But so far, her arguments make sense. She seems like she's telling the truth.

From the city, beyond the forest, he hears the sound of roaring. The golem. How is Yennefer faring? The golem is still alive. Who has been killed? Has it trampled any villages yet? Has it killed Yennefer in her efforts to bring it down?

“What is your answer?” Gwenllian urges him. “Hurry up.”

Regis sighs. Fuck it all. “Fine. I take you up on your deal. But if you betray me, if you trick me –”

“Yes, I know, you will hunt me down, and bring Filip to the Nilfgaardians.” Gwenllian says impatiently. “Now, let them go.”

Regis turns to Filip and Barney. Both foolish, both loving. “Go. Flee to Kovir. Do not involve yourself in such schemes again, Filip. You got off lucky this time. If you get caught in such crimes again, the authorities will not be as forgiving as I have been.”

Filip stares blankly. He can barely believe it; barely believe he’s walking out uncaptured and alive from the encounter.

“I said, go. Before I change my mind.”

Quickly, Filip grabs his brother’s hand. Together, they run from the clearing. Neither look back.

Sighing, Regis rubs his forehead. Then he looks at Gwenllian. “You know, your ‘kind hearted’ friend has just unleashed that monstrosity on the city?”

“I know. Normally, he is smart and level headed.” Gwenllian shakes her head. “He panicked, I think.”

“Do you have any of the transmutators?” Regis asks urgently. “Filip broke his.”

She searches through her pockets, and brings out the contraption. A small machine, yet one that can do so much damage. “I hate these infernal machines. The noise it makes is agonising.”

Regis grabs it from her. “Well, we’re both going to hear it one more time. It’s the only thing that might stop the golem. And you’re coming with me.”

She rolls her eyes, but nods. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Together, they both turn into mist and fly through the forest, gliding effortlessly but urgently over fallen tree trunks and snagging undergrowth. When they reach the open plains, Regis can see that the city of Oxenfurt is mercifully unharmed. But the golem is still upright and walking, in the distance towards Novigrad.

Damn it! Not even waiting to see if Gwenllian is following him, Regis flies as fast as he can towards the golem. The closer he gets, the more he sees.

The golem is shielding itself with one arm, lashing out at thin air with the other. On the ground, Ameer’s face is wrought with concentration, staring up at the golem. He’s casting illusions. So Yennefer wasn't able to convince him to stay away after all. By the golem’s feet, terrifyingly close, Yennefer is casting a portal. The milky void grows larger and larger, water lapping through the circle, and Regis quickly realises what they intend to do. If the golem puts its foot in the circle, it will fall. Such a fall would be likely to damage it severely, maybe even kill it.

But the aim of her portal has fallen short; the golem’s foot is a good distance away.

Until Yennefer throws something at it.

From his current but nearing distance, he isn’t exactly sure what. But whatever it is sends a blue glow spreading across the golem, turning the crystal from green to indigo.

Then it vanishes.

And lands with its foot directly over the portal.

Regis’ relief and triumph is short lived. For as the golem loses balance and begins to fall, Yennefer’s horse bucks her off. She lands on the grass, stunned, as the golem falls towards her.

She’s going to get crushed.

In a split second, he races forwards. The crystal mass is getting closer and closer. Even if she runs as fast as she can, she won’t get out from under it. So he flies as fast as he can, turning back to his corporeal form at the last second.

He overshoots slightly. As he lands, he crashes into Yennefer, knocking the wind out of her. But there’s no time to waste. Standing over her, hoping that he might at least shield her from the crystal, he holds up the Zerrikanian transmutator. Two buttons – one with an arrow pointing up, one with an arrow pointing down. He takes a breath, readying himself for the inevitable pain, and presses the arrow pointing down.

Instantly, the noise of the transmutator overwhelms him. It stabs his head, rips apart his ears – or feels to, the pain is so immense, too immense. He can practically taste the agony. But he doesn’t stop pressing the button. As the noise continues to deafen him, the golem glows a bright, brilliant white. Slowly, it shrinks in size as it falls. Still, Regis doesn’t let go of the button. The pain is so terrible and sharp, his eye sight begins to go blurry, obscuring the mass in front of him into a glowing blob. Still he presses it. Even as he feels blood dripping onto his neck, even as his entire skull aches with pain, he continues pressing. Is it small enough yet? No, he can’t stop. If he stops prematurely, and it lands on them, he’ll never forgive himself. So he grits his teeth through the pain, almost breaking his own jaw with his pain-fuelled strength. 

Something grabs his wrist. Yennefer? She’s taking the transmutator from his shaking hand. As soon as his finger leaves the button, the noise ceases and Regis almost collapses with relief.

And in front of him, the glow fades. A golem the size of a gnome falls to the ground. The impact doesn’t do much to harm it, but the following lightning bolt is enough to make it go still. Permanently.

Instantly, Regis falls to his knees, the relief of the absence of pain overwhelming. His vision still blurs, so he fumbles around on the grass like a drunkard.

“Yennefer?” He calls, knowing he’ll not hear a response. “Yennefer, are you safe?”

He feels someone touch him. A hand is placed on his shoulder, then one on his face. His gaze is directed towards the owner of those hands – Yennefer. She looks dishevelled, slightly winded from being bucked from her horse and then knocked over by Regis. But otherwise, entirely unscathed.

He sighs out in relief. “I’m so glad you’re all right.” Something laps at his knees – water. It’s coming from the portal, washing over the tiny body of the golem. Quickly, far more quickly than smaller portals – perhaps because of its size – the portal vanishes, leaving a few fish and scraps of seaweed on the grass.

“You stopped it. You stopped it from attacking the cities.” He can’t smile; it hurts too much.

His head is turned carefully, and his face aches too strongly to resist. Her face etched with worry, Yennefer peers at his ears, looking at the mess of blood and damage to the ear drum.

“I’m fine.” He tells her. “It…Well, it bloody hurts, but it will heal.”

She turns his face towards her, and opens her mouth. Then closes it. Conflicted, uncertain what to say. When she opens it again, he can’t hear her. But he reads her lips, makes out two words.

Thank you.

At this, he smiles – and instantly grimaces at the pain. “Ow…”

Yennefer articulates with her hands, chanting inaudibly, and holds her glowing palms by his ears. Quickly, the pain begins to lessen. She looks utterly exhausted, drained from her battle with the golem, but she eases his pain regardless.

He means to protest, considering the pain will eventually go away, but the relief is so much that he just closes his eyes and allows her to cast the spell, relishing in the alleviation. When she finishes, his ears now simply ache instead of searing in agony.

He smiles at her. “Thank you.”

From his right, someone shakes his arm, startling him. It’s Ameer. Like Yennefer, he is largely unscathed, apart from some blood at his ears, no doubt a side effect of the transmutator. When he speaks, Regis can now hear his voice, very faintly.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m glad you’re both safe.”

“Filip. Did you find him? Did he tell you where Tye went?” Yennefer asks quickly.

He nods. “I did. Tye has gone to Velen, to meet a sorceress.”

At the news, Yennefer cannot help but smile. In relief, that their hard work was not wasted. In excitement, that they are one step closer to finding Geralt’s would-be murderer.

None of them move, though. No matter how desperately they might want to go and chase after Tye in Velen, they’re all exhausted. Together, they sit by the small golem, too tired to speak or move. Regis patiently waits for his ears to fully heal, and almost doesn’t notice when two parties join them.

The first are Dandelion and Zoltan. Both riding horses, followed by a group of curious, frightened and relieved villagers who look upon the small golem with surprise.

“Bloody hell! You shrunk the bugger!” Zoltan exclaims.

Before Regis can greet them, check that they’re all right, ask why Dandelion is wearing Nilfgaardian armour, and how they got out of prison, the second party approaches.

It’s a gang of Nilfgaardian soldiers. A general, soldiers, and two rather beaten individuals. One wears refined but crumpled and bloodied clothes. The other wears nothing but underwear. Both look extremely unhappy.

“There they are!” The well-dressed one points at Dandelion and Zoltan. “They attacked us! Beat us up, tied us up and locked us in!”

“And stole my armour!” The undressed one shouts. Ah, that explains Dandelion’s new outfit.

“They just saved the lives of many villagers.” Yennefer stands up. “They helped evacuate these people from the golem, while you were busy hiding in the city.”

Among the group of villagers, the chatters become discontented. One of the generals steps forwards.

“…This seems to be true. They also alerted the soldiers in the square about the golem’s approach, allowing us to evacuate on time. But they are still criminals. Murderers. They escaped from prison.”

“They are not murderers.”

Regis turns to see Gwenllian. She faces the Nilfgaardians, no fear on her face. If anything, she looks amused. True to her word, she didn’t run away.

“What? Who are you?” The general demands.

“I killed Parviz. I heard rumours about magical artefacts in his shop. So I broke in, stole the transmutator. He returned early, unexpectedly, and I killed him. I framed these two so I could evade arrest. And you fell for it. These people tried to confront me, when they realised what I did. So I summoned the golem, made it grow large. That is the truth. These two men are innocent.”

At once, the Nilfgaardians raise their weapons towards her. She barely bats an eye.

“Where is the transmutator?” The general commands.

Slowly, Gwenllian walks towards Regis, leaning down to pick it up from the grass where he discarded it. She locks eyes with him.

“See? I do not break my promises.” She whispers. Then she turns around, walking back to the Nilfgaardians.

“Hand it over.” The Nilfgaardian holds out his palm.

Gwenllian nods, reaching her own hand over. Suddenly, she scrunches her hand into a fist, crushing it, and places the broken cogs onto the general’s palm.

“Here you go.” She smiles.

Gritting his teeth, the general barks a command in Nilfgaardian. Soldiers surround her, shackle her in dimeritium. Still, she smiles. Dimeritium has no effect on vampires.

The general looks back at Dandelion and Zoltan. “You still broke out of prison, assaulted members of the Nilfgaardian army.”

“To save ourselves from being tortured.” Zoltan argues back.

“Indeed. Five of my fingernails have been ripped out, for absolutely no reason at all – as you have plainly heard, we are innocent.” Dandelion says haughtily.

“May I reiterate, these men helped reduce the damage and mortality count of this golem.” Yennefer repeats. “Not only that, it was myself and my companions who killed this creature. Not you, or any of your soldiers. In fact, your soldiers made things worse. They almost aggravated the golem into charging through Oxenfurt when we had successfully goaded it towards a different direction.”

The general folds his arms. “…Indeed, you have saved many from the rampage of that creature. I suppose a reward is in order.”

“Let these men go free.” Yennefer says immediately. “They are innocent, as established, but they are not to be punished of any crimes they committed while in captivity. And a monetary reward would be appreciated as well.” She adds.

The general considers this for a few moments. When he nods, the well-dressed man and the naked soldier look infuriated, but keep their mouths firmly shut.

“These two men are free to go, pardoned of their crimes.” The general waves his hand. “All civilians are to leave this place. My men will collect the golem’s body, and officers will be sent out shortly to assist in replacement of evacuated citizens, and to begin surveys of the damaged houses.” Nilfgaardians have plenty of negative qualities, but they certainly are efficient.

Slowly, the crowd begins to disperse. The soldiers take away Gwenllian. Regis wonders how long she will remain in captivity until she gets bored and leaves, causing pandemonium among the soldiers for her impossible escape.

Eventually, the soldiers force everyone to leave as they start surveying the destruction. Despite her exhaustion, Yennefer walks proudly, her coin purse comfortably fuller once more. And when they have retreated some distance, away from the impatient ushers of the soldiers, Regis finally turns to greet Dandelion and Zoltan.

“It has been too long, my friends. Far too long.” He smiles. “I’m so glad to see you safe.”

“You took the words out of my mouth.” Dandelion embraces him. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Aye, we were sure you’d kicked the bucket in Stygga Castle. Never been so glad to be mistaken in my life!” Zoltan grins.

“I truly regret that I didn’t come to you sooner –”

“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?” Dandelion beams. “That’s what truly matters. And just in time!”

Regis smiles. True, many of his mortal friends are gone. Geralt’s Hanse is almost obliterated, and Geralt himself is in peril. But that means he simply has to fight harder for his living friends.

“Goodness, I’m feeling…elated. Simply overjoyed. Despite the pain in my hand.” Dandelion adds, grimacing slightly. “There’s only one thing to do. Let us head home to the Chameleon, share a drink, and talk about what we’ve missed in each other’s absence! What do you say, old friend?”

“I’d like that.” Regis smiles. “I'd like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the final chapter of Part 1! I'll try and put Part 2 up soon as well! Hope you've been enjoying the story!


	23. Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone's doing all right - these are scary times so I hope everyone is safe and well.
> 
> (also, book spoilers)

_“-Geralt, I was wondering…these illusions, do they come solely from the vulpess’s mind? Or does she draw from others…our own imaginings, for instance?_

_-No idea. No one knows much about the creatures. And what we do know might be an illusion anyway. See, vulpesses are part fox, part elf, but entirely female…So pretty hard to fathom. Mystery, whimsy, mischief – they’re at the core of their nature.” – A conversation between Janessa and Geralt._

In no time at all, the smell of wine hangs heavily in the Chameleon.

Despite the long journey between Oxenfurt and Novigrad, Yennefer had travelled alongside Regis, Ameer, Dandelion and Zoltan. They only stopped once, for Yennefer and Regis to heal and dress Dandelion and Zoltan’s wounds, and travelled at a slow pace.

Sitting on a horse took less energy than summoning a portal, so Yennefer didn’t mind travelling on horseback. Besides, it gave her an opportunity to rest, remaining silent and even resting her eyes occasionally as Dandelion and Zoltan proudly told everyone of their grand escape from the Nilfgaardian prisons. Through the bragging and Dandelion’s vivid story-telling, though, Yennefer could sense something was not quite right even in her tired state. They looked…slightly unsettled under their smiles. And their claim the Nilfgaardian soldier at the barracks, the one who ripped out Dandelion’s fingernails, just fell into the river, or the sudden and coincidental appearance of the basilisk…She decided to ask them later, though. No point ruining their story, and she was far too tired anyway.

By the time they reached Novigrad, the sun was lowering in the sky, making the air colder and sharper. And what a huge relief it was to reach the city of Novigrad. In fact, it was the first time she’d felt happy to see its walls and watch towers since Radovid’s purge. Even happier was she to see the doors of the Chameleon, back to warmth and comfort with no murderers, drug dealers or giant golems to deal with. Word must’ve gotten ahead, a message delivered, for the door swung open.

“Dandelion!” Priscilla ran out and threw her arms around the poet. He hugged her back tightly, not even caring for his injured fingers. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re safe! And Zoltan, too!”

“Never you fear, we’d have never allowed ourselves to be executed!” His grin softened to a loving smile. “And it is I who am overjoyed to see you.” When Geralt said Dandelion was serious about settling down with Priscilla, she had secretly assumed he would get tired and move onto some other woman. She thought she’d never see the day he left that life behind. It seemed he was proving her wrong. Very wrong.

“Come on, let’s break out the booze! Bein’ in that prison has given me a real hankerin’ for the finest Mahakam spirits!” Zoltan proclaimed loudly.

“Yes, wine! Food! Music! Only the best to toast our dear friends who vanquished the giant golem and saved our hides!” Dandelion declared.

And so, the festivities begin immediately – bar Ameer, who decides to retire temporarily to bed and rest following the battle with the golem. Yennefer and Regis escort him to one of the rooms upstairs.

“How are you feeling, Ameer?” Regis asks. His ears are back to being fully healed, so he no longer shouts inadvertently when he talks.

“Exhausted, and light-headed…” Ameer closes his eyes. “I think it shall do me good to rest for a while to recover.”

Yennefer glances at Regis. She can tell he’s thinking the exact same thing: Ameer looks only slightly tired. His exhaustion is nowhere near what it was when he fought Gwenllian, yet he’s done far more fighting that golem than he did in the caves. He even still had enough energy to keep the horse that Regis rode calm in his vampiric presence.

He does seem eager to sleep, though. When they bring him to the bedroom, he curls up and falls asleep immediately under the covers, not bothering to change his clothes. Any other person would struggle to sleep through the chatter and music already sounding from downstairs, but Ameer has always been able to sleep through anything. She’d often find him on even the busiest wards, resting after a long and gruelling shift.

Though Yennefer isn’t sure if he’s actually sleeping. He looks entirely natural, but she has a feeling he’s simply pretending so that she and Regis will leave. Even so, she closes the door gently when they leave.

“Come on. Let’s go back down, before Dandelion and Zoltan drink themselves to death.” As she walks away, though, Regis suddenly grabs her arm.

“Wait.”

She looks back, frowning. “What is it?”

He purses his lips, looking unsure for a moment. Brow furrowed in thought, uncertainty in his eyes. Then he sighs, and looks directly at her.

“I want to apologise. About…What I said. After we fled from the caves. I didn’t trust you, I dismissed your concerns, I was terribly condescending. And…I was harsh. Needlessly so. I said some terrible things, implied some terrible things. I want to make it very clear: I don’t blame you for what happened with Vilgefortz, and I never wanted to imply I thought otherwise.” He hesitates. “I…Being a vampire, outliving humans so frequently, I…I suppose I’ve become a tad overcautious when it comes to mortals. But you’re the last person I should worry about.” He frowns. “That came out wrong. I mean, you’re very capable – in fact, you saved me from getting killed by Gwenllian, so I shouldn’t _have to_ worry about you, does that make sense?”

Yennefer finds herself smiling. Warmed at his nervous, fumbled apology. Warmed at the sincerity of his words. Warmed that he somehow saw past her own foolish stubbornness.

He holds his hand to his heart. “Will you forgive me, Yennefer?”

“Only if you forgive me.” She shakes her head. “I was far too harsh myself. I know I can be a stubborn shrew at times, and my temper can be rather short.” Now it’s her turn to hesitate. “…I suppose, I let our first meeting cloud my vision of you. I became so afraid of…of what happened, I was so angry at _myself_ for letting it happen, but out of all of us, you are the one I should be least worried about.” She smiles. “If you understand what I mean. I’m sure you found me, speaking in that way to a higher vampire, awfully patronising.”

“No, not at all, I –”

“Will you forgive me?”

Regis smiles. “Of course, Yennefer.”

After a moment of hesitation, they embrace each other. No matter her standoffish pride, Yennefer finds the hug comforts her more than she thought it would. The stress of solving this murder, of finding Tye, of Geralt’s soul being trapped in that hunk of metal…The last thing she needed was an argument weighing on her mind. Now, she feels significantly…lighter. Happier.

When they pull away, Regis is still smiling. “Shall we return downstairs? Embroil ourselves in the celebration?”

“Yes, I’d like that. Actually, I could certainly do with a glass of wine after that whole blasted ordeal.” Yennefer smiles. “Two glasses of wine. Maybe three, depending on how the evening goes.”

Together, they return back downstairs. Already, bottles have been opened, and tankards have been filled for a second time.

“There they are! Come on, lets raise a glass!” Dandelion pours them both a glass of wine, and holds up his own. “To our dear friends, for all their help!”

“For savin’ our asses from the Nilfgaardians!” Zoltan adds.

“For defeating a monstrous golem, a deed that will surely be repeated in many ballads to come!” Priscilla finishes.

They clink their glasses together, Regis looking slightly embarrassed at their praise.

“So, how did you figure it out?” Dandelion asks. “You dashed off from our visit, Regis, as if you’d had a sudden realisation.”

“Ah, yes. You see, shortly when we arrived, Yennefer visited Corinne Tilly.” Regis explains.

“Corinne Tilly?” Zoltan scratches his head. “That’s the ori...orieman…the fancy dream lady, right?”

Yennefer smiles at his description. “Indeed. She helped me see a vision, one that confirmed Tye was involved in the murder. And one that showed the true murderer in the form of a panther.”

“A panther – oh! And Filip played with the panther card!” Dandelion realises.

“Exactly. Yennefer then confirmed my suspicions with her own lead, and we set off to find Filip. Of course, the confrontation didn’t turn out quite as well as we’d hoped.”

“That giant golem – how ever did he manage that?” Priscilla asks.

“A Zerrikanian transmutator.” Yennefer explains. “An object with the capability to increase or decrease the size of an object. Thankfully, it’s been destroyed now. Who knows what sort of havoc it might have caused, let alone sending a giant golem onto the city.”

“So, Filip knew magic? I never would’ve guessed.” Dandelion says. “Though he didn’t seem like the murderous type, either.”

“He didn’t know magic. Not a single drop of magical abilities in him.” Yennefer corrects him. “Tye gave it to him.”

“Ah, I see…Tye knows magic, then?”

Regis nods. “Filip was afraid of him. Said he knew dangerous, powerful magic.”

“Really?” Priscilla frowns. “He seemed such a timid individual.”

A strange contradiction. Most mages hold themselves proudly, and at times arrogantly. Though, perhaps Tye was keeping a low profile, if he knew he was being pursued by herself, Regis and Ameer. And the matter of him stealing that Ofieri necklace – he knew enough about magical artefacts to recognise it and the transmutator. What sort of training has he had? And how old is he, really?

“Oh!” Zoltan slaps his forehead, then runs from the room, his drink sloshing in his tankard. When he returns, he carries a leather bag.

“Here! I nabbed it from the prison! I completely forgot to tell you!” He puts the bag on the table triumphantly.

“Say, isn’t that Tye’s bag?” Priscilla asks.

Instantly, Yennefer and Regis hurry to it, opening it urgently and peering inside. A small coin purse, a slightly rusty shaving razor, a small mirror with fingerprints on the surface, and some folded parchment. If Tye is a mage, he certainly doesn’t live an extravagant lifestyle, either.

“Normally it’d have a scarf on it.” Zoltan remembers. “A black and yellow one.”

“The Kaedwen colours.” Yennefer realises. No doubt, if they’d found it and straightened it out, a black unicorn would’ve been stitched right in the middle. “Maybe that’s where he’s from.”

“Really? He didn’t have much of an accent.” Dandelion remembers.

“Ban Ard is located within Kaedwen.” Yennefer frowns. “Perhaps he’s a graduate of that school.”

“Do you remember him? Among your previous colleagues, at any event?” Regis asks her.

However, Yennefer is just as disappointed as he is when she shakes her head. “No. I may have spoken to a few Ban Ard graduates, but I remember none looking like him. Then the Thanned massacre…It was such chaos, so many died, I wasn’t paying attention to who was present. Besides, I was…absent for a few years, then lost my memory in Nilfgaard. I have no idea who graduated into a fully-fledged sorcerer in my absence. By the time I recovered, Radovid had begun his purge and successfully invaded Kaedwen in order to strengthen his army and dispel the Nilfgaardians. Facing the threat of the pyre, Ban Ard disbanded and its students fled. The school was only rebuilt recently. He could be a researcher, who took no interest in politics and so never appeared at banquets, or he could have graduated while I was away. He could even have been a student whose studies were disrupted by Radovid.” She shakes her head. “We don’t even know how old he is.”

“What about this?” Regis takes out the parchment, and she helps him unfurl it.

The paper is blank. However, she can see in the corners water stains, the paper taking on a ruined texture in her fingers. Tiny traces of a map – some trees, a river – are just visible, having been smudged by the water. Yet the rest of it is blank.

“Hm.” Yennefer stands back, and holds her hands out. “Nocht an méid atá tú i bhfolach.”

Slowly, the paper begins to glow, as if burning. But instead of leaving charred ashes and soot, colour slowly reveals itself. Territories form, rivers and estuaries carve themselves out, settlements appear and are labelled.

“A clever trick. But not clever enough.” Yennefer studies the map more closely. “Regis, he was going to Velen, correct?”

“Yes, that’s what Filip said.”

Her gaze falls on a red circle, outlining swampland and forest. Written in small text, she sees three words:

LAST SPOTTED HERE.

“Last spotted here…” Yennefer frowns in thought. “What did Filip say, exactly? Word for word?”

“He said Filip was looking for a witch in Velen.”

“A witch?” Yennefer repeats. “Not a sorceress?”

“That’s correct. Although, I’ve heard sorceresses be called witches many a time. Why?”

“…When I was with Corinne Tilly, during the vision, just when Tye was leaving, I…I felt something.” She paces back and forth. “A feeling. Of something old, something malicious. And if he was going to Velen to see a witch, one he will search for in the middle of a swamp…I’m afraid I know who that might be.”

“Why is that bad?” Regis cocks his head. “Doesn’t this mean we know exactly where to go, know precisely where to find him?”

“In a sense, yes. But the individual is a very unsavoury one. Or so I’ve heard.” She turns to Dandelion and Zoltan. “Did Geralt tell you much about his encounter with the Crones of Crookback Bog?”

Zoltan takes a long, deep drink from his tankard, and Dandelion shudders.

“He mentioned it. He mentioned how they were involved with the disappearance of Anna Strenger – the wife of the Bloody Baron, the man who helped Ciri four years ago when she was injured in Velen. But he didn’t say much more than that. Thoroughly disliked talking about the whole event, no matter how hard I pressed.” Dandelion recalls.

“Nor to me.” Yennefer admits. “Though Ciri told me how the Crones attacked her, and wanted to eat her.” The thought it makes her bridle with disgust and anger. “She killed two of the sisters, but one escaped. With Vesemir’s medallion, too. I did some research on them. Heard the tales of Velen farmers and village folk. Heard about the rituals and the religions. As for the Crones themselves, I could find very little information on them. Only one very old, waterlogged book. But the more I heard, the less I liked.”

“I think I’ve heard of them in some obscure plays and poems.” Priscilla recalls. “They’re mostly in some fables and tales that give out warnings of greed, and wishes gone wrong. Whenever I’ve tried to look further into the influences and inspiration of these tales, I’ve only ended up with the religion in Velen. I didn’t pay much heed to it, honestly. Thought it was nothing but superstition, or a branch religion of Melitele. Seems I was very wrong.”

“And I did mention those Crones to Tye.” Dandelion remembers. “When he interrogated me about magic. The more we talked, the more desperate he became, and I mentioned the Crones as ones who give out favours…supposedly. I did say they were evil monsters, not to be trusted. But I suppose Tye isn’t as smart as we thought, if he’s risking paying the last one a visit.”

“Now, which is the closest village to the orphanage…” Yennefer checks on the map, locating the village of Downwarren. “Here. We’ll have Ameer stay there. I don’t want him coming into orphanage with us.”

“Why not?” Dandelion asks. “He seemed powerful when you fought that golem. Won’t you want his help?”

“He can help us travel through Velen, but I don’t want him going anywhere near that Crone. Not with Geralt’s soul hanging around his neck. If that thing breaks, then Geralt’s soul is lost forever.” She explains. “The Crone is far too powerful to risk it.” Fleeing the elven ruins, Regis crashing into him, fighting the golem…That’s far too many near misses already. The only reason she doesn’t want him to stay safely in Novigrad is simply because of his illusory powers and knowledge of poisons that may prove invaluable travelling Velen, or if they find more of Tye’s notes.

The entire time they’ve been speaking, Regis has grown rather pale and unsettled. He sits at the table by the map, regarding it warily.

“Regis? What is it? Have you had a run in with these crones, too?” Yennefer asks.

“No, no, it’s the first time I’ve heard of them. But…I suddenly feel uneasy.”

“Uneasy?”

“They’ve given me a rather sudden feeling of dread.”

“And how’s that?”

“I can’t explain further. Vampire’s intuition.” He smiles weakly. “Forgive me for my vagueness. I don’t know how I’d translate it into human terms and understanding.”

“Just like you, Regis.” Dandelion waves his hand. “You know so many things, and you tell us about them is such length, but as soon as it’s about vampires – the real juicy stuff! – you utter about three words!” He looks around at them. “Come, let’s not taint the evening with talk of this crone! We’re to celebrate!”

“You’re right. We’ve figured out where Tye is going, and that’s plenty for today. We can focus on the crone tomorrow.” She can’t believe she, of all people, is saying this, but there is little point souring the mood with talk of the crones. Yennefer is far too tired to start making an intense plan on how to approach the crone, how to find it. Retiring in Toussaint has softened her, it seems. No more diving head first into scheme after scheme without a break.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself!” Dandelion drains his tankard. “Another round for me!”

Regis smiles, shaking himself of the unease. “And another for me, if you’d please.”

The atmosphere lightens very quickly with a little more alcohol. Priscilla closes down the main hall for their own private use while they celebrate, allowing them some privacy as they talk. Conversation fluctuates between the recent events and more mundane scenarios, each discussed with the excitement of a ballad or some heroic deed. The chef returns and promises them only the finest of meals while they eat a starter consisting of grapes and cheese. Dandelion takes out his lute, already strumming random cords, even despite his healing fingers. Nothing can stop him from playing that thing, Yennefer muses.

Soon, Zoltan turns to her, and his face is already going rosy from the drink. “Say, Yennefer, you know a lot about magic…and Regis, you’re – well, I wouldn’t like to call you a monster, it’s not very nice…”

“But I undoubtedly have great knowledge about my more bestial brethren, and others you classify as monsters.” Regis smiles. “Do continue, I take no offence.”

“Well…” He scratches his head. “I suppose it’ll sound daft, but…what do you know about Fox Mothers?”

Yennefer and Regis share a nervous glance.

“Why do you want to know?” Yennefer says innocently.

“When we escaped from the prison, there were some…some real strange things going on. Ropes cuttin’, ropes appearin’, doors being open when they shouldn’t, people mistakin’ Dandelion for their own comrade – not knowin’ the face of their own prisoner! Then that bloody basilisk, and…the guard who fell in the river. There was a lass with him. He clearly wanted to plough her, and she led him from the barracks, into the river. But there was a meadow.” He looks at her seriously. “I saw a meadow. And then it vanished, and so did the lass.”

“You were under a lot of stress.” Regis tries to say, but Zoltan shakes his head.

“When we were going after the golem, I saw someone. This Ofieri she-elf. She looked at me, and she had all these fox cubs around her. I look away for one second, and she vanishes.”

An Ofieri she-elf. Fox cubs.

Once more, Yennefer and Regis share a gaze. Clearly, they have the same thought in their minds, but no way of expressing it while Zoltan sits with them.

“So, I think to meself, what if it’s a Fox Mother? They dabble with illusions and whatnot, it would make sense! Heard a tale of a hunter who tried to kill one, and died in a very similar manner to the bastard who ripped out Dandelion’s fingernails. The fox cubs are a pretty big giveaway, too. So, what do you know about them?”

Now, with Zoltan staring eagerly at them, Yennefer avoids looking at Regis. “Well…I can certainly say their magic is different to the magic of a mage – channelled differently, too. Their illusions are far superior to any that a mage could cast. Any. Not even the likes of Artorius Vigo or Stregebor could hope to compete.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You see, illusory magic is a complex skill. Mages like Artorius Vigo could make marvellous illusions, or so I’ve heard. Worlds fit for walking in, characters to interact with. But these types of illusions require immense skill, time, practice and preparation. Illusions crafted from Fox Mothers are an instantaneous skill. They will require no time nor effort to conjure up an illusory person. Moreover, sorcerers like Artorius will rely on machinery and charmed objects to aid with their spells.”

“Like the Land of a Thousand Fables.” Regis posits. “It was a book – essentially a piece of machinery. But without proper maintenance, the world fell apart.”

“Yes, exactly. A Fox Mother needs nothing but her own magic. And I doubt even Artorius would be able to discern reality from the illusion of a Fox Mother. The Eye of Nehaleni _might_ aid in differentiating them, but not always reliably, depending on the age and skill of the Fox Mother. Apart from that? We know pitifully little.”

“I’m afraid I can offer no new information, either.” Regis tells him. “Vulpesses are a very…Hm. Secluded race. They can stay hidden and keep secrets far better than any other monster, even higher vampires, owing to those illusory powers. And thus, I cannot claim to be an expert.”

“I see.” Zoltan nods, and takes another drink. “So, is Ameer a Fox Mother?”

Yennefer almost chokes on her wine. “I’m sorry?”

“See, I’m not entirely sure, because I thought Fox Mothers could only be lasses. It’s in their bloody names! But I saw those walls and basilisks that Ameer summoned to distract the golem. And, well, he’s an elf. Then that she-elf – I hope I’m not bein’ racist here – but that she-elf was from Ofier. Surely it can’t be a coincidence.”

“I was wondering that myself.” Dandelion, who was listening, joins in the conversation. “He was always vague about being magical. Is he a mage? Or something else?”

Unwittingly, she shares a panicked glance with Regis. Who knew Zoltan would be so observant?

“Ameer isn’t a Fox Mother. You can ask him yourself, if you want.”

Zoltan drains his tankard, smacking his lips. “Maybe I will.”

“Well, he’s sleeping right now.”

“I’ll ask him when he wakes up, then.”

He isn’t waiting long.

Yennefer is happily sipping her wine, glad to have traversed that conversation without letting the secret slip, when someone suddenly throws their arms around her from behind. She almost spills her wine in surprise.

“Yennefer!” Ameer drapes his arms over her shoulders from behind her.

“Ameer, you gave me a fright, sneaking up on me like that! How are you feeling?”

“Better! Much better!” Indeed, he looks very perky, grinning from ear to ear. “That rest has done wonders for me!”

Yennefer smiles. “I’m glad to hear that. Are you going to join us for a spot of drinking and revelries?”

“I think I shall. Only wine, though. I cannot drink any others. Especially beer.” The most popular drink in Skellige. No wonder he’s had enough of it.

“Ameer, I have a quick question.” Zoltan catches his attention. “Are you a Fox Mother?”

Yennefer pinches the bridge of her nose. He really just asked. So casually, a deadpan expression on his face. He really just had to ask, didn’t he?

Ameer blinks. If he’s taken aback, he doesn’t show it. “What makes you think that?”

“He saw your magic when we fought the golem.” Yennefer explains succinctly. She’ll ask about the Ofieri she-elf in private.

“Oh.” Ameer hesitates thoughtfully. “What is unusual about it? I have told you I can do magic.”

“Yeah, but those kind of illusions? So detailed and in such quick succession?” Dandelion has apparently joined in with the debate.

“It seems you have made up your mind. No matter what I will say, you think I am a Fox Mother.”

“Well? Are you?” Zoltan asks.

Yennefer and Regis watch Ameer carefully. Zoltan isn’t trying to be hostile, he’s simply drunk and overconfident. And Dandelion will take any opportunity to show off. But how will Ameer interpret this accusation?

She can sense the panic growing behind his eyes. “I did not say I was. But if I was, as you call them, a Fox Mother, what would you think? I have heard they are dangerous creatures who steal elf children and make them their own. What would you say?”

“Well, I’ve met with the dryads. Sung for them, in fact. They do almost exactly the same thing, but their repertoire extends to human children as well.” Dandelion remembers.

“And we’re friends with a bloody vampire.” Zoltan adds. “So you don’t need to worry about us. We don’t mind that you’re a Fox Mother. So, I have to ask, why aren’t you a lass?”

“Yes, what’s that about? I thought they were all women.” Dandelion joins in.

Ameer looks bewildered. Not only have these people figured out he is an aguara, without even getting a definite answer from him, they apparently do not give a shit. Yennefer isn’t surprised, though. Having monster acquaintances is second nature to them.

“I…” He looks nervously to Yennefer. “I…”

Dandelion notices his unease. “What’s the matter?”

“I think we’ve spoken enough about Fox Mothers –” Yennefer tries to interject, but Dandelion continues speaking.

“What’s the matter?” He slaps Ameer cheerfully on the shoulder. “We’re entirely harmless, I promise.”

“I…I do not understand.”

When it comes to skill of maintaining relationships, Dandelion can be one of the biggest fools Yennefer has ever met. Confident in his craft, yet careless. But he’s not stupid. Far from it. And at times, the poet has a keen insight that many others lack. It’s not just his flowery language and sweet voice that has made him such a famous poet. It’s how he perceives the nature of the soul, of humanity, and the state of the world. With striking acuity that can both offend and enchant. Yennefer knows this well, having been on the receiving end of it in his ballads.

His gaze becomes serious for a moment. When Dandelion takes in Ameer’s alarmed state, he must sense something – understand something – despite barely knowing him.

“I’m sure telling you not to be afraid is pointless. Only four years ago, I wouldn’t have dared ask. I would’ve told you to flee the city as soon as anyone – even a single person – discovered your identity. An old friend of mine, a doppler, was burnt at the stake despite lacking any cruelty and making the city better for anyone. I won’t tell you not to be afraid. But _we_ don’t care who you are, what you are. You helped me and Zoltan. You’re friends with Yennefer and Regis, and I trust both their judgements. Why would I have any reason to spread around your secret or wish you dead?”

“Even if we did, I doubt we’d be able to cause you any harm.” Zoltan points out. He’s obviously thinking about the Fox Mother he saw earlier, her tricks and silent deadliness. “Only an idiot would try.”

“Your secret is perfectly safe with us.” Priscilla smiles. “We won’t tell a single soul.”

Ameer looks stunned. He glances between them with an air of bewilderment, as if he expects them to take back this statement any second. But they don’t. And his shock turns into a smile. One of pleasant surprise and quiet delight.

“Exactly. And we’ll make sure he,” Zoltan nudges Dandelion, “doesn’t let it slip.”

“Excuse me. I thought Regis was dead. I was trying to keep his memory alive.” Dandelion protests, then gestures to Ameer. “And I assumed he already knew, which he did anyway. Besides, people wouldn’t believe me. Anyone who’s heard of Fox Mothers knows that they’re female. You’re not. Right?”

“…I am not a true aguara.” Ameer finally admits. “For I am male. I am not as powerful as my sisters in many ways when it comes to illusions.”

“Ah. Interesting, interesting.” Dandelion says thoughtfully, as if he’s an expert on this elusive race. “What kind of illusions can you do, then? You can make things appear, right? Like the walls and the basilisk. What else?”

Ameer’s initial caution is slowly giving way to mischief. He smiles, and suddenly it’s not Ameer standing there, but Dandelion.

“Ah!” Dandelion jumps back. “How – I thought only Dopplers could do that!”

The other Dandelion smiles. “Please. I can do what a Doppler does with ease.” Even his voice sounds like Dandelion’s.

“Do me! Do me next!” Zoltan says loudly.

After a few moments, the other Dandelion is replaced with a second Zoltan. “It is always trickier getting the height right. But still easy enough.”

“Ho ho!” Zoltan peers at the other Zoltan, scrutinising his face. “I’m impressed! You’ve done a bloody good job!”

“So you’re like a doppler, then? You can change your form to others?” Priscilla asks.

“Not quite.” The other Zoltan vanishes from the room. Moments later, another Priscilla appears next to the real Priscilla, arm leaning on her shoulder. “I am not changing my actual form. I am simply changing your _perception_ of me.” Suddenly, the second Priscilla is holding a lute. “You see? I am making you think there is a lute here. That is the power of our illusions.”

“Oh, I see. You trick people into seeing things that are there – or aren’t there?” Priscilla realises.

“Yes. Your friends are drunk, so they are very easy to trick right now.”

“We’re not even that drunk.” Dandelion insists.

“Aye, just wait till we’re really drunk. Right now, we’re comparatively sober.” Zoltan agrees.

“Ah. Then I should be able to trick you very, very well.” The second Priscilla grins.

“I suppose you’re used to this.” Regis asks Yennefer with a smile. “Him pretending to be you and other such mischievous antics.”

“You have no idea.” Yennefer says, amused. “He’d do this sort of thing all the time when I found out.”

“Oh, but you did think they were funny.” A second Regis has appeared next to them, and even the herbs in his bag look identical. No matter how prepared for it he was, Regis still does a double take when he sees this new higher vampire. It is very…odd, seeing a perfect replica of oneself. “Yennefer, did you know that I, Regis the vampire, eat insects?”

“I’m afraid this is the kind of mischief you’ll have to put up with now, Regis.” Yennefer says, amused.

“Well, you always thought it was very funny when I cast stupid illusions that only you could see, in the presence of very important people.”

“Yes, that was rather amusing.” She remembers Nilfgaardian ambassadors and nobles talking obliviously while Ameer changed their clothes to ridiculous costumes and make up. “Though it made it harder to keep a straight face.”

“Now I cannot trick you.” Yennefer gazes upon herself standing opposite her. Her hair falls in the same ringlets, she speaks with the same mannerisms. But Yennefer is not taken aback, for she is more than used to this. “If I ever try to play a prank on you, you will always realise what I am doing and figure it out.”

“I think that’s more from knowing your character than recognising your illusions.” Yennefer admits.

Finally, Ameer appears before them once more. “Yes, I think you are right. But would you still be able to figure it out now?”

“Of course. I can predict your tricks from a mile away.”

“How about we test that?” Ameer suggests with a smile.

“By all means.” Yennefer says casually. “I’m certain I’ll win, so it doesn’t bother me.”

Zoltan whispers into Dandelion’s ear. “Let’s bet on it.”

“Twenty crowns says she’ll figure it out.” Dandelion whispers back.

“You’re on.”

Ameer bows theatrically – and then there’s two of him. They both straighten up, and walk past Yennefer. When she turns around, there’s four. Walking across the Chameleon, they weave in and out of each other, spinning around and circling each other in a confusing web. As they pass, they touch hands, and another Ameer appears and joins the rotations. Soon, a gathering of twenty Ameers have materialised in the Chameleon. They all sit down on the rows of seats, chatting to each other and sitting in different positions.

“Which one is the real me, Yennefer?” One Ameer calls.

“Well, it is obviously me.” Another declares.

“No, you fool, it is me!” Another argues back.

“What about me? Am I not real?”

“No, I am real, and you are all fake.”

“What if we are _all_ real?”

“We cannot be all real, stupid! You must definitely be fake; the real Ameer is not so stupid!”

“Argue all you like, I know I am the real Ameer.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I know the difference between reality and an illusion, and I am definitely not an illusion.”

“Well, I also know the difference, and I am not an illusion either!”

“I am hungry. Is there any food here?”

Regis stares at them all, mouth slightly agape. “Good heavens. I had no idea he could pull off tricks like this!”

While Yennefer is used to this sort of thing, she understands his surprise. Only a day ago, Ameer was fainting from overexertion. Yet, ever since the golem fight, he’s been bursting with magic and energy. Was a burst of adrenaline and then a simple rest all he needed to return his illusory powers to their peak?

No matter. She’ll ask him later. Right now, she has a bet to win.

She looks calmly and evenly across the crowd of Ameers. With all those complicated steps, weaving in and out of each other and creating new illusions, she hadn’t kept track of the original Ameer. But she doesn’t need to.

“The answer is…None of you are the real Ameer.” She announces. “Ameer, you’ve created them all and hidden yourself, haven’t you? Probably right behind me, too.”

“Oh, Yennefer!” He drapes his arms around her from the back. “It is no fun when you see through my tricks! Though I am impressed. It seems you know me very well after all.”

The crowd of Ameers clap before vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Zoltan grumpily gives the twenty crowns over to Dandelion, who pockets them triumphantly.

“Well, that was quite a performance.” Regis claps his hands. “I’m impressed.”

Ameer grins. “You are? You enjoyed that?”

“I did. I wasn’t aware you could do such tricks.”

Ameer smiles triumphantly. “I am pleased. It has been a while since I had fun like that. Perhaps we should have more of these bets, Yennefer.”

“Perhaps we should. It will be fun for me to win some more.”

“Ha! I went easy on you. Next time, I am sure you will not guess my tricks so easily.”

The more the evening goes on, the more drunk everyone gets. The chef brings out food – honeyed chicken with raisins and apple cider vinegar, along with mushrooms dipped in a delicious garlic butter – which Yennefer enjoys more than she expected. Dandelion has hired his staff well. Ameer devours his, his appetite entirely back now. Zoltan shares stories of his various financial misdemeanours and the trouble he’s landed himself in, all with an amusing outcome – normally being bailed out by Priscilla. Dandelion strums his lute, humming songs and sharing his new ballads with them. Regis is quieter, content with simply listening to their stories. Even though he doesn’t contribute much to the conversation – a rare feat for a knowledgeable man like himself – she can tell he’s happier now than he has been for this entire journey so far.

Soon, even Yennefer finds herself getting slightly tipsy as she sits at a table, nursing her current glass of wine. She’s not seeing double, and certainly not as drunk as the others – only Regis is able to keep up with the complicated steps of traditional Ofieri dances that Ameer is teaching them, while the others trip over their feet and stumble into each other – but her own thoughts and reactions aren’t quite as crisp as she’d like them to be.

She realises she’s enjoying herself. As soon as she makes that realisation, guilt ensnares her. Here she is, fooling around, while her daughter is beside herself with worry, while her lover remains trapped in a necklace. What is she doing? She can’t be enjoying herself like this.

The thought dampens her good mood, as if pouring cold water over herself. She suddenly feels isolated. Wrong. She didn’t give these parties much thought in the past. It’s Geralt who should be here. These pleasantries, this drunken tomfoolery, she was never part of it. Dandelion, Zoltan, Geralt…Triss. In her absence. Do they really want her here? They would trade her for Geralt in a heartbeat. The thought attacks her quite unexpectedly. Hm. An unfortunate side effect of alcohol. With the pleasant, warm fuzzy feelings comes…rather disagreeable thoughts.

“Yennefer.”

Her attention is caught by Regis. Despite all the dancing and alcohol, he still looks entirely sober and not even slightly out of breath. However, he has something of a playful smile on his face. He holds out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

Yennefer is surprised when she hears her own voice reply with agreement. “That sounds as if it could be amusing. Yes, I’ll dance.”

Even so, she doesn’t stop herself as she takes Regis’s hand. Those negative feelings have suddenly vanished, and she’d rather it stays that way.

Regis bows theatrically. Yennefer, deciding to give in to this childishness, curtsies dramatically. Regis places his hand on her waist, and she places her hand on his shoulder. At first, their waltz is slow and slightly clumsy. She’s danced many a waltz in her time, but the alcohol has interfered with her hand-eye co-ordination, and she accidentally steps on his toes. But soon, they get into the rhythm of the song. Dandelion plays faster and faster, so they match their speed with the music until they’re spinning and almost tripping over each other. Yennefer finds herself laughing, hears Regis laughing too. At some point, they seem to switch positions – Yennefer leading with her hand on Regis’ waist – and they spin faster and faster, until the music comes to an abrupt and triumphant end as Yennefer dips Regis, just managing not to drop him unceremoniously onto the floor. She hears the others cheer as Regis laughs to the point that she can see his fangs.

She almost feels foolish. Almost. But her last glass of wine has stopped her from caring.

Eventually, Yennefer retires for the evening. She doesn’t want to drink too much and have a terrible headache tomorrow, not when they have to start planning for their next perilous journey. She leaves the others playing gwent, no doubt Ameer using made up rules he claims to be of Ofieri origin to try and win extra points.

Thankfully, the excited noise from the party quietens considerably by the time she reaches her room. It shouldn’t keep her awake, then. After all this stress and using so much magic today, she could do with a sound night’s sleep.

Closing the door firmly, she pulls off her gloves and looks through her bags for her night gown. Here it is. Never has she been so ready for a good rest.

“Hello, Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

Yennefer freezes.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. That voice came from behind her. A woman’s voice. The grip on her night gown tightens. She tries to keep her face even, unsurprised. Magic crackles at her fingertips, the last of her energy.

She turns around.

The woman stands by the window of her room. Moonlight washes in through the stained glass, painting the woman with pale red and blue hues. An indigo dress, tattered at the hems. A cloak of fur around her shoulders, each hair lit up by the moonlight outside. The skin of her arms suggests someone hailing from Ofier.

Her face isn’t human.

Two green eyes watch her carefully. Two pointed ears. A long snout. A black nose. Sharp, canine teeth. Soft, sandy fur.

A Fox Mother.

It’s getting harder to conceal her shock, her alarm. She tries to match her gaze with the Fox Mother.

The Fox Mother remains silent. There are fox cubs on the bed. Sandy coloured foxes with big ears who watch Yennefer with the same green eyes.

“…Who are you?” Yennefer asks at last.

The Fox Mother tilts her head. “They say you are a clever woman. Perhaps you can guess.”

It doesn’t take long for Yennefer to figure it out. The suspicion has been on her mind ever since Zoltan told her about the Ofieri she-elf.

“You’re Ameer’s mother, aren’t you?”

The Fox Mother’s mouth opens, revealing her fangs. Her eyes squint, her ears pricked forwards. A fox’s way of smiling.

“Very good. Very good, Yennefer of Vengerberg.” Her accented voice is melodic, alluring. Each word rings out across the room. Yet Yennefer is sure even someone with their ears pressed right up against the door would not hear a single word.

“What is your name?”

“I do not have to tell you that.” She says evenly.

“How did you find us?”

“I spoke to a vixen and her cubs. They were seeking safe passage to an old mage’s manor. In exchange for me helping them out of Novigrad and to their destination, they told me about Ameer’s location. You and him helped save the cubs from a river in Novigrad.”

That makes sense. “You helped the dwarf and the human escape from prison. Why?”

“Ameer had been helping them. They were in trouble, were they not? So I intervened.”

“You killed a guard.” 

“He stank of cruelty. He will not be missed.” The Fox Mother says nonchalantly, pleasantly.

“And the basilisk – was that an illusion or a real bewitched monster?”

“An illusion. Those creatures are slowly dying out, and are few in number. I had no desire to go and search for one.”

Yennefer nods slowly, feigning calmness. She can feel her heart pounding – being visited by a Fox Mother is never a good thing.

“Why are you here?” She asks, keeping her voice neutral. “You’ve already spoken to Ameer, haven’t you?”

“I have. I watched you both on the fields as you fought that golem. He looked so weak…” Her teeth bare slightly. “He is more powerful than that, you know. Such feats should not have tired him so. Those barbarians who enslaved him can take credit for his weakness.”

Yennefer glances at the door. About three steps away. Will she reach it, if this interaction turns hostile? Fox Mothers are fast. She doesn’t know.

“You know little about Fox Mothers, Yennefer of Vengerberg.” The Fox Mother continues. “No one outside our race knows much about us. Even higher vampires. But surely you must know we are fast. I will catch you before you get anywhere near that door. And I do not play.”

Yennefer snaps her gaze back to the Fox Mother. Her pulse races, but she forces herself to remain calm. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I am more powerful than Ameer, and I do not accept the company of humans so readily. You must know this, since he is male, he is not a true Fox Mother. He never will be. For example, I can wear dimeritium shackles and feel no affect. My magic is not hampered by that metal. Yet Ameer will be as powerless as any mage in such chains. That is why he has been so weak lately. Being in those shackles for so long has sapped at his energy, his powers.”

“He seemed awfully spry downstairs. And he seemed to return to full form while we were fighting the golem.” Yennefer understands now, before the Fox Mother even answers her unasked question.

“Yes. That is because I revitalised him with my own magic while you battled. Shared some with him. He should be back to complete strength now. No more fainting from over-exertion.”

He saw her on the fields, didn’t he? That’s why he looked so shocked, and so overjoyed. And the horses that suddenly appeared – that was her, too.

“Then I’ll ask again. Why are you here?” More importantly, why is Ameer still here? He’s just been reunited with his family. Surely he wants to leave with them, return to Ofier?

The Fox Mother turns away. Yennefer blinks, and suddenly the fox head has been replaced with that of a she-elf’s. Her long, curled hair reaches mid-way down her back, and she stares out of the window with thickly lashed eyes. She’s very beautiful. Yet there is something of concern on her face.

“He was overjoyed to see me. And I was overjoyed to see him. For a year, I have been twisted with worry. I felt an unease before the news even reached the mountains where we live. I knew something was wrong. But by the time I knew for certain, he was gone. He had fled Ofier.”

“The people of Ofier know about him, don’t they?” Yennefer asks. “His identity was discovered.”

“…Yes.”

Yennefer sighs. She’d always assumed, but Ameer had never confirmed it. Now she knows for sure. Poor Ameer.

The Fox Mother glances at the door, where her son plays with humans downstairs. “I was angry at first. I had warned him about the dangers of human company. Yours is a brutal, fickle species. And not only had he been discovered, he did not even return to his family.” She closes her eyes and sighs. “Such anger was short lived. He was trying to prevent us from being discovered, from being hunted and killed. So he fled Ofier, to try and reach the ocean. I think he was trying to flee to Nilfgaard. But he got caught. Has he told you about any of this?”

“No, he hasn’t. I don’t think he likes to talk about it.”

The Fox Mother nods. “I see.”

“Who caught him?”

“A man with great magic. Like yourself.”

Yennefer frowns. “A sorcerer?”

“Yes. A man who I sensed great evil on. I tried hard to find him, to exact my wrath upon him for taking my son away. But I could not find him – a rarity for someone like me, you understand.” She shakes her head. “I had to give up. I had my other children to look after and protect, children much younger and more vulnerable than Ameer.”

“You’re here now. What changed your mind?”

“I finally heard news that he was in Skellige. Now I knew where he was, I could not abandon him. Fox Mothers do not abandon their children. It has been a long, difficult voyage for both me and my children - I did not want to leave them alone in Ofier. Yet as we travelled, the news changed. He had been rescued by a witcher – a hunter of our kind – and taken in by a sorceress and a higher vampire. Now, why a higher vampire is here, I am not sure, but he told me about you.”

“He did?”

“Yes. He said you were a good friend. I suppose I should be relieved. You looked after him while he was vulnerable. But now, I am not so sure.”

Yennefer swallows. She feels her heart speed up. “And why is that?”

“You see, I came to him tonight to bring him back home. He may never return to the cities in Ofier. He must never interact with humans again in that land. But he can live with us in the mountains once more.” Her eyes narrow. “He said he cannot. He told me he is doing an important mission, helping you save the soul of a witcher.”

Yennefer clenches her first. She feels heat on her skin, as purple fire begins to grow.

“Please.” The Fox Mother looks amused. “I am not here to fight you. Ameer is an adult. He does not rely on others for guidance or instructions. He can make his own decisions. And this decision is not solely about returning a favour to the witcher, or even helping his friend. He is _lost_. I can tell.”

“He’s lost?”

“He suffered greatly. He was humiliated and shunned, cast out from his country. He lost so much. To sneak back, return with his tail between his legs after being enslaved for a year, to hide away in the mountains…He is too proud for that. He needs a purpose right now, to help him find his way again, something to regain his own strength and confidence. If he wants to save this witcher, help his old friend, I will not stop him.”

“Then what do you want? Why are you speaking to me?”

The Fox Mother tilts her head. “I am here to offer you a job.”

Yennefer frowns, taken aback. “A job?”

“I am still his mother, and I still care for him. Even after he has…What do you like to say in Common? Left the nest?” The Fox Mother smiles. “You are a mother too, are you not? Children are so insistent about leaving home, finding their own way. It can be difficult to trust them, let them travel their own path without helping in some way. Surely you have felt this way too, tried to help your own child even when they insisted on going alone?”

Yennefer’s interference with Ciri’s striga contract. She says nothing.

“I will take that as a yes. Unfortunately, I cannot stay here. I need to return to Ofier with my children. They are not suited for these cold lands. And so, my job offer.”

“You want me to look after him. Is that right?” Yennefer asks.

“I am not asking you to _babysit_ him. He is not a child. Rather, I just want to make sure he does not get himself killed. He is in a vulnerable state. Having lost so much, he may be reckless. Your job is to ensure he does not die.”

“Do I have a choice in this matter?”

The Fox Mother smiles. Her eyes seem to glow in the moonlight. She holds out her hand. On the flat of her palm is a crystal attached to a black cord. A crystal necklace. Deep blue with graded shades of periwinkle and purple. Flecks of gold line the base. The colours of a glorious sky at dawn.

“Take this.”

Yennefer picks up the crystal. “What is this? Payment?”

“Ameer gave it to me. He spent months making it, channelling magic into it. He cast a spell on the crystal. The user can teleport the wearer of the necklace to any location they desire. Any location. Regardless of how far apart they are.”

The same spell he used on that bird skull, the one she used to teleport the golem.

“Of course, I cannot perform that kind of magic. But he made this so anyone can use it. Even those without magic. That is why it took so long to make. He made it so I could give it to my children, and teleport them from harm if I sensed they were in danger.”

The Fox Mother holds out her other hand. A double-bladed knife rests on the palm of her hand. The handle is made from pure gold, decorated with ornate jewels and carved patterns of Ofieri design.

“This can either be your payment…or your punishment. You are going on a dangerous journey, Yennefer of Vengerberg. I can sense great evil ahead of you. You may find yourself in peril, with not enough energy to create a portal. If you do, I shall remove you from that situation, deposit you somewhere safe. All you need to do is chant these words to alert me: naql lana beyda ean alkhatar. However,” her eyes are fiery, “if my son is dead because of this mission, then I will know. You do not even have to utter the chant. I will know. And I will remove you from wherever you are, and place you somewhere to die miserably. So,” she holds the knife, “do we have a deal?”

Yennefer stares at the knife. Moonlight catches on the blade. For once, her mind is filled with panicked uncertainty. A rarity. She can feel the Fox Mother’s intense gaze upon her. Ameer is powerful, now more than ever thanks to his mother’s intervention. He does not need to be watched like a child – he can take very good care of himself, much better than Yennefer can thanks to his illusory ability to disappear and flee. If she were to land in danger, this could be a useful way of escaping.

But this journey is going to be difficult. Dangerous. And they’re next destination is Velen, to meet an ancient, malicious, cannibalistic entity. Any of them could easily die. Even Regis could be violently disposed of.

The blade of the knife shines in the moonlight.

She realises suddenly that her choice is an illusion. She only has one option here.

Slowly, she nods. And holds out her hand.

The Fox Mother smiles. On the bed, the cubs spring up and gather around their mother’s feet, staring up intently. The Fox Mother presses one blade across the tip of Yennefer’s finger, drawing blood. Then the Fox Mother pricks her own finger with the other blade.

“The crystal.” She says.

Yennefer holds it out on her uninjured hand. The Fox Mother lets the blood from her own finger drop down onto the crystal. Yennefer does the same.

Their blood mixes on the smooth surface of the crystal. It begins to shine brightly, hurting Yennefer’s eyes. When the glow fades, she sees that the splatters of red have been infused within the crystal. Shades of red have now joined blue, purple and gold.

“Good. Wear this necklace on you. Say the words if you are in trouble. But the crystal has limited use. Do not waste it. Now, I must leave.”

“Wait.” Yennefer says quickly. The Fox Mother watches her with an amused expression. This is not someone she wants to irritate. But this is important.

“The sorcerer who caught Ameer. What do you know about him?”

“I never saw him or met him. Otherwise he would be dead. I do not know his name, either.”

“Do you know anything about him? Anything at all?”

The Fox Mother tilts her head. She says,

“I heard he had a scar on his forehead.”

Yennefer clenches her fist. She knew it.

But why? With the realisation comes immense confusion. It doesn’t make _any sense._ Now, she has more questions than answers.

“…I see. Thank you.”

“Farewell, Yennefer of Vengerberg. Sleep well. You have a dangerous journey ahead of you.”

Yennefer blinks. That’s all she does. Blink.

And suddenly, the Fox Mother is gone. She and her cubs. Vanished. Not even a shadow in the moonlight.

-

Regis doesn’t tire of the drunken fun as the evening goes on. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this happy. Talking to his old friends, sharing wine and stories, he’s able to lock his loneliness away in a box in the depths of his mind. True, it’s hard to shake Milva, Cahir and Angoulême from his thoughts. They would have enjoyed this, too. In fact, he feels guilty at first, celebrating without them.

But it’s been so long since he’s seen Dandelion and Zoltan. They were almost executed. He can allow himself this evening, to enjoy their company and reminisce on old times.

Yennefer bids them goodnight and retires to bed. Regis, Priscilla and Zoltan content themselves with another round of gwent, using food as stakes. Despite having an impressive deck, Zoltan makes plenty of strategical mistakes most likely owing to his current blood alcohol level. It’s been a long time since Regis himself played gwent, so he finds himself falling prey to Priscilla’s Scoia’tael traps.

“More wine?” Zoltan offers him.

“Ah, no thank you. I think I’ve had enough for tonight.” Regis decides.

“It’s not that strong. Definitely nothing compared to your mandrake hooch.” Zoltan grins.

“…Fine. I suppose one more glass won’t hurt.” Regis holds it out, and Zoltan pours more wine in. “You don’t mind us going through your stock like this?”

Zoltan waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry yourself about it. We have a very nice deal on this wine – Dandelion caught the seller watering down the wine, so we came to a comfortable arrangement. Actually, that reminds me.” Zoltan gestures to the glass. “When we first met, you said you didn’t drink. What’s changed since then?”

Loss, Regis thinks. Overwhelming loss. Despite Dettlaff’s kind patience during Regis’s recovery, he didn’t quite understand Regis’s grief over losing his hanse. Anger, yes, but not sadness. Regis continued collecting mandrake, just like he had been doing when he first met the group, and he had given into weakness.

Of course, he doesn’t say that. “I suppose we all need our vices. Better alcohol than blood. Alcohol doesn’t…impair me in the way blood once did.”

“I can imagine that. Well, wouldn’t have imagined it the first time we met! The polite, kind elderly man hiding in a grave yard was actually a vampire?” He shakes his head. “Appearances deceive, that’s for sure.”

On the table next to them, Dandelion and Ameer are talking. Despite having drunk more, Dandelion seems more sober than Ameer, who swishes his wine around in the glass as he talks.

“Tell me, have you ever been to Ofier?” He asks.

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Dandelion confirms. “I spent a lot of time in the royal palace.”

“Hm.” Ameer leans against the table. “And what did you do in Ofier?”

“Well, I was helping Geralt solve a monster case. Actually, I saved his life. Stopped him from getting flayed alive and torn apart by horses. Geralt isn’t exactly popular in Ofier.”

“Yes, that is true.” Ameer tilts his head. “While you were in Ofier, did you sing?”

“I did. For the king, no less.”

Ameer smiles. “I knew it. You are the Nightingale Prince!”

Dandelion feigns coyness. “Ah, you’ve heard of me?”

“But of course! Everyone knows of you. They say your voice could soothe even the foulest of the king’s tempers. Some even thought you were part siren. But they claim you _died_.”

“I faked my death, you see. I feared I might never return home if I didn’t. The king wasn’t going to let me go anytime soon.”

“You are right about that.” Ameer muses. “The king adored you. When you ‘died’, he had a shrine built in honour for his precious Nightingale. For a month, he refused to listen to any other music, for no one could sing as sweetly. I always wanted to hear it for myself.”

Dandelion smiles, and picks up his lute.

_“Which words are best for you, my love?_

_For so long have I failed to know._

_A burning love, aflame with lust?_

_But that should turn to ash and snow._

_Which words are best for you, my love?_

_The ardour in a blackbird’s call?_

_But, though the song be honeyed sweet,_

_the bird shall flee when winter falls._

_Which words are best for you, my love?_

_Perhaps the gentle running tide?_

_But 'neath the water's placid face_

_Lie sunken ships and men who died._

_My words all die for you, my love_

_Each metaphor turns foul and cruel._

_When they compare to you, my love_

_No words can speak a love so true.”_

The beautiful music is enough to pause the gwent game. Everyone falls silent to listen. Regis has missed that voice. Missed the sound of those strumming lute strings. And to think, if they hadn’t arrived in Novigrad, if Dandelion and Zoltan had been executed…

He shakes himself out of the melancholy – for that is a tragedy that never happened – only to see someone else suffering from that same emotion. As Ameer listens, his expression grows sombre. The music captivates him, enchants him with each note and chord. But something about it pains him, too. Some cathartic sadness lingers behind his eyes. A thoughtful sadness as he listens to the song.

When the final line ends, and the music comes to a halt, Ameer claps. “…Beautiful. I understand the king’s anguish now. Thank you, Nightingale. That was truly beautiful.”

Dandelion bows. “You’re very welcome. And I thank you for your kind words.”

Ameer stands up abruptly. “May I be so bold and ask for more wine?”

Dandelion points over to the kitchen. “Take as much as you’d like.”

The gwent table, too, comes to a quick end. Priscilla defeats her opponent quite easily.

“Damn it!” Zoltan shakes his head. “I’m taking you on again. Double or nothing.”

“Sure, if you want to lose some more.” Priscilla glances at Regis. “Would you like another round too?”

“Ah, I have a feeling it would be wise not to.” Regis smiles. “I think I shall excuse myself from this next game.”

He leaves them both playing what is going to be a tragic game for Zoltan, and decides to sit with Dandelion, to talk with his old friend.

Their conversation is broad and wide. Speaking about what the other has missed in all those years of absence, reminiscing on older and simpler times. Oh, how Regis has missed this. 

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Dandelion.” Regis glances over at Priscilla. “How did you meet your new paramour?”

“Oh, we were something of rivals.” Dandelion admits. “As you’ve no doubt heard, Priscilla has a very enchanting voice. When we met, we realised we enjoyed each other’s company. A lot.” He sees Regis’s face and sighs. “I know what you’re thinking. You don’t believe it’s going to last, do you?”

“Not at all.” Regis smiles. “I am surprised, though. I will admit that.”

“Of course you are. A dog, a whorseon, a horny lecher – all things I’ve been called, and that I can’t really argue with.” He grins. “What’s your take, then? Is there an intellectual word for such a thing?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so cruel and call you a horny lecher.”

“What, then?”

“Let me see…I think, Dandelion, that you love far too easily.” Regis muses. “You love plenty, you love genuinely, but your affections change too often. Always distracted by the next shiny toy. And the problem is, you don’t realise how seriously people take your love. How much they’re moved by your words of affection, how much they end up adoring you.”

“That’s a very kind way of saying it.”

“What changed, then? Was it simply about finding ‘that special someone’ that you humans always like to write about?”

“Hm…maybe. But I don’t think that was just it.” Dandelion’s gaze grows serious. “I’m growing old, Regis. I’m not immortal like you, or extremely long lived like Geralt. And…I think my view on life has changed.”

“Is that so?”

“…First it was Essi.” He looks down at the table. “You never met her, did you? Of course not. She was a friend of mine. Little Eye, I called her. Author of the Blue Pearl. She was like a little sister to me. Oh, she had the sweetest voice you had ever heard. That didn’t stop her from being taken by the small pox epidemic. After that, it was the hanse. In one fell swoop, I lost so many friends. Including you. And then, shortly after, the Rivian pogrom…and Geralt…” he sighs. “…Priscilla told you about the vampire attack, didn’t she? How she almost died.”

“She did tell me of that terrible incident.”

“All this time, I was taking what we had for granted. I, of all people, shouldn’t have dared do that. But I did. And I almost paid for it again. Love is a most wonderous thing, Regis. A tremendous thing. Capable of causing us such joy and pain. It’s what we live for, and it’s our greatest weakness. I treated love as a play thing. An indulgence. So, I told myself, as I stayed by Priscilla’s bedside, that I would never, ever take it for granted again.” He hesitates. “Old habits die hard, though.”

“Yes, I did hear about that.” Regis smiles. “But you did come back to her. That’s more than what you did for your other lovers – the Duchess of Toussaint, for instance.”

“Exactly. Though, I will confess, Priscilla wasn’t exactly going to have me executed. Ah, what a fun time we had in Toussaint. All six of us…” His smile fades away again. He looks over at Ameer, who is oblivious to the conversation.

“His bow…” He frowns. “It looks just like hers.”

“It is hers.” Regis confirms.

“That can’t be right. It must be just another bow from the Far North. It can’t be hers.”

“No, it is.” Regis insists. “I’ve held it in my hands, Dandelion. It’s Milva’s. I’ve no doubt about it.”

Dandelion runs his hand over his face. “Where on earth did he find it?”

“Yennefer bought it for him, in a blacksmith’s. The blacksmith in question believed the bow came from Parviz’s shop.”

Dandelion curses quietly under his breath. “…How did that whoreson get his hands on her bow?”

“I understand your surprise perfectly. Parviz was terribly unsuited for a financial lifestyle –”

“No, you don’t understand.” Dandelion looks at him seriously. “That bow…I think it was buried with her.”

“You’re saying Parviz found her grave, dug it up?” Regis says, disgusted.

“No, no. It’s impossible to find that grave anymore.” Dandelion hesitates. “…Castle Stygga doesn’t exist anymore.”

Regis frowns. “What do you mean?”

“After everything that happened, after Yennefer and Ciri were rescued…The Lodge of Sorceresses had been made a fool of. To try and pretend otherwise, they blew up Castle Stygga. Very, very thoroughly. The shockwaves were felt all the way in Oxenfurt. Nothing exists of Castle Stygga anymore. There’s no way a fool like Parviz would’ve been able to find the location, know exactly where to dig to find the bodies. There’s just no possible way.”

“…That is strange. I suppose…someone smarter than him must have figured it out, and he stole the bow from that person.”

Dandelion sighs. “Perhaps…This whole affair reeks of oddity, Regis. A malevolent oddity I’m not fond of. And I don’t need to have vampire senses to notice that.” Once more, he hesitates. “…I hate to bring this up, Regis. But I have to ask.”

Regis knows the question long before Dandelion even asks it.

“How on earth did you go from being a melted puddle to…well, you again?”

Regis looks down at his drink. It was an inevitable question, so he’s prepared himself well for it.

“A friend. Another higher vampire. He saved me, nurtured me back to health. Unfortunately, he…passed away.”

“Oh. I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Regis.”

“Thank you.” He takes a drink from his tankard. “I was in Toussaint at the time, with Geralt. After that, I moved to Nilfgaard.” He’s eager to move on the conversation. “Worked in the villagers as an unofficial doctor.”

Dandelion smiles. “That’s very like you, isn’t it? What do the Nilfgaardians think of that?”

“Well, Nilfgaard is far stricter about doctors being licensed, so I advertised myself as a travelling botanist. Any herbs being medicinal was a coincidence, or so I told the soldiers who came to visit me. Of course, the villagers never revealed my other profession. It does not a lick of good being in a country with the most advanced medical care when you cannot afford it yourself.”

“Hah! Very typical of Nilfgaard, isn’t it? Such a contradicting country.” Dandelion muses. “On the one hand, they have great advancements in medicine, the arts, architecture and such.”

“And yet they constantly go invade other countries and think nothing of laying waste to innocent villages or imprisoning people into slavery.” Regis continues. “Their secret police turn neighbours and friends against each other through the power of fear alone. And they’ll happily execute even the slightest wrong-doing without any thought or mercy. Very contradictory indeed, my friend.”

“Honestly, I have to say that…” Dandelion trails off, his attention captured by something else. When Regis follows his gaze, he sees Ameer walking up the stairs. Well, attempting to walk up the stairs. He wobbles with each step, almost losing his balance and falling over.

“Ameer?” Regis calls over. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes.” He calls back dismissively.

“Perhaps he shouldn’t have any more to drink.” Dandelion suggests.

Ameer turns back to face them, holding out his empty hands. “No more wine. See?” Unfortunately, his masterful illusion is completely ruined when he turns around and, presumably forgetting that Regis and Dandelion can still see him, resumes drinking directly out of the wine bottle he’s carrying.

Regis sighs. “I’d best sort him out before he drinks himself into oblivion.”

Dandelion grins, and refills his own glass. “Good idea. Meanwhile, I’ll drink myself into oblivion down here!”

It doesn’t take long to find Ameer. He’s sitting on the ground, having gone the wrong direction to their room, and drinks from the wine bottle.

“Oh, Regis.” Ameer smiles as he looks up. “Would you like to share a bottle with me? Oh.” He quickly disappears the bottle. “I mean, there is no bottle.”

“Ameer, hand over the bottle.” Regis says sternly.

Ameer sighs, and holds up the now-reappeared bottle. Regis quickly takes it from him, then helps Ameer to his feet.

“I think you should go to bed, don’t you agree?”

“Regis…” He rolls the syllables in his mouth. “Regis…Is that your full name?”

“No. My full name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy.”

Ameer barks a short laugh. “That is a long name! Emiel Regis Rohellec…Rohellec…That is a long name!”

It takes a long time to get Ameer to the right room. His footsteps are uneasy, and it takes far more effort than Regis had predicted to stop him from tripping or colliding into the wall. All the while, he talks.

“Emiel…Emiel…Why do you call yourself Regis? Your first name is Emiel.”

“Well, I used to. But my friends started calling me that, and I suppose it stuck.” A nickname developed by the hanse, so he moves on quickly. “What possessed you to get this drunk, hm?”

Ameer’s face tightens. He says nothing.

“What is it?”

“Nightingale has a beautiful voice. So does Callonetta.” He says quietly.

“Oh, you liked their songs?”

Ameer stares at the floor. His gaze is pained. Conflicted. Grieved.

“Ameer? What is it?”

He suddenly looks up. There’s a forced smile on his face. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I apologise, Regis. My behaviour is very unbecoming.”

It doesn’t take a genius to sense that he’s hiding something. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

Ameer waves his hand dismissively, accidentally almost hitting Regis in his drunken co-ordination. “Ah, I am just being…sentimental. Foolishly sentimental. Forgive me…” Then he frowns. “…Do you smell lavender?”

What? Regis walks past him, towards the door – and he smells it, too. Lavender, geranium, cypress.

Ah. They have a visitor.

“…Ameer, would you be able to wait outside for a moment?” Regis asks. When he turns, though, he sees Ameer is already settling on the floor. Using his raven-feathered cloak as a pillow, he curls up and falls asleep with impressive speed.

Regis sighs, takes off his overcoat and drapes it over him. Not the cleanest make-shift blanket, but it will have to do. Regis will move him later. But first, he needs to speak with this guest.

Gwenllian sits on the side of the bed, arms folded and tapping her foot impatiently. As he enters the room, she looks up with an irritated frown.

“Ah, finally.” She stands up. “There are still some possessions I would like to collect from my house before the soldiers seize everything, so I would like to be quick here.”

“You got tired of being in prison quickly, then?” Regis quietly shuts the door. Hopefully there’ll be no eavesdroppers at this hour.

“It was very dreary. And they wanted to torture me, so I left. I dislike pain. No doubt there will soon be massive uproar and chaos across the barracks when they realise I somehow escaped.” She smiles.

“What are you doing here, then?” He certainly wasn’t expecting her to visit.

“Hm…” She paces back and forth. “Perhaps I would like to…thank you. For agreeing with my plan and letting Filip go, even though you had no reason to trust me. And even before I made myself known, you were willing to help Filip – although he certainly didn’t deserve it. So, as a thank you, I am here to give you a warning.”

Regis frowns. “A warning?”

Gwenllian nods. There’s no levity in her expression. “Yes. You were wrong about something.”

“And what was that?”

Carefully, wincing as she does it, Gwenllian unwinds the bandage around her neck. Her hand hovers over the nasty wound.

“This? This was not self-inflicted.” Her voice is serious. “Everything I said about it was true.”

“What?” Regis stares in confusion. Is he missing something here? “What do you mean?”

“I bought a necklace from Parviz, like I said. Since we were…colleagues, I wanted to be seen talking to him in public, so that any private conversations we had would not be seen as too unusual, you understand? I picked out the necklace at a whim, did not think much about it. It was pretty enough, so I thought I might even try wearing it. And at first, it was fine. A silver chain with “sapphire” jewels. After only two usages, the sapphires fell off. That did not surprise me so much.”

“Indeed.” Parviz didn’t seem to have many reliable wares at all.

“But…” She touches her neck with a grimace. “Since he was a stingy bastard, the necklace was not real silver. Only silver plated, and cheaply at that. The plating quickly wore away, and…the metal underneath burnt me. Injured me.”

Her expression is one of confusion, apprehension, and dread. It mirrors Regis’s expression perfectly.

“It burnt you?” He repeats out loud, still not quite believing what he’s hearing. “That’s not possible.” Not even hot iron can burn a vampire.

“Not a heat burn, more like a…chemical burn. Even so, I would have thought it was impossible too, had it not left this mark on my neck. A full week, and still it has not healed properly. I was planning on visiting a mage, actually, to accelerate the healing. Herbs are not doing enough.”

Now it’s Regis’s turn to pace, his thoughts racing. A metal that can burn a higher vampire like himself? Cause a wound that fails to heal by itself at a vampire’s normal rate? He’s never heard of such a thing. And that worries him. Immensely.

“Did Parviz know? And where did he get such a thing?” 

Gwenllian shakes her head. “He had no idea, otherwise he would have kept it for his black market auctions. And he claimed to have stolen it off a travelling merchant. It was disguised as a necklace – perhaps the maker had no idea of its properties.”

She holds out her hand, holding a cloth bag on her palm. “Open the bag.”

Regis obliges, pulling the string to open up the cloth. Nestled at the bottom is a thin chain. The metal is a dark, dull grey, slightly gritty from the fallen silver plating.

It fills Regis with terrible dread.

“What on earth…” Instinctively, he reaches out to pick it up, examine it, but Gwenllian quickly pulls it away.

“No, do not touch it. You will hurt your fingers.” She warns him.

“What is it?” He asks nervously. “What are it’s metallic properties?”

“I do not know. I have avoided doing experiments on it. I did a lot of research, though gained little information. In fact, I even flew to Oxenfurt and snuck into Professor Shakeslock’s old quarters – he did a lot of research into strange magic. All I could find was this.”

She passes him a torn page, perhaps from a diary.

_Today was an interesting day. An old friend of mine, a professor of comparative mythology, managed to bribe the guards and visit me – something new in this dreadful isolation. _

_This friend, a marvellous academic in his own right, told me a rare tale he heard from only the oldest inhabitants of Skellige. He called it the Darkness of Svællenblodd. Long ago, long before the isles were united under the entity of Skellige, in a kingdom nestled among the mountains, a king worried about his warfaring neighbours. His enemies had an immortal champion blessed by a strange magic on their side, who resisted all steel, who could not be felled by axe or sword or spear. The king had already lost two sons trying to fight this brute, and another to a surprise ambush. In his desperation, he prayed and sacrificed to the gods – but his enemies had better prayers and even better sacrifices, and the gods did nothing to help his plight. When he lost another son to fever, the king called upon a god that few dared to. _

_His name was Svællenblodd. An old god, even old for that ancient moment in history. The king travelled deep into a mountain, sacrificed his newborn son on the altar, and summoned him from the darkest pits of Hehllhyiem. The god – beast – monster – spoke to him in the shadows._

_“I commend you for your sacrifice. What do you wish?” He asked._

_“Show yourself.”_

_“You do not wish that,” Svællenblodd replied._

_“I am your king. And I command you to show yourself.”_

_“Send forwards your servant. Let him gaze upon my face first.”_

_And so, the king sent forward his servant. The man peered into the shadows, and dropped dead on the spot when he saw Svællenblodd’s face, his own face twisted in horror._

_Even after that, though, the king was foolish. Even as his servant lay dead on the floor, he was foolish and, more importantly, desperate. He told Svællenblodd about his plight, that he feared his clan being wiped from existence. As a reward for his terrible sacrifice, Svællenblodd crafted him a sword. Made from his own blood, from shadows themselves, and from some strange creation that the king did not recognise and could not describe with his own language. This sword, Svællenblodd explained, could kill anyone that the king wished. Nothing would be safe from its blade. Whether that be his warring neighbours, the immortal warrior fighting for them, the monsters of trees and bones that roam the deepest forests, the strange creatures that lurk in the cracks of the sea bed, or even the gods themselves. No one could survive this sword. Not only that, but the blow did not even have to be fatal. This sword created wounds so terrible that no amount of time or herbs could heal them. The victim would perish in agony, the wound constantly open and sore, ripe for infection._

_Victoriously, the king went to war. With the ease of killing a fly, he cut down the immortal warrior with his god-given sword. Then he vanquished his enemies, cutting them down in a mad dance of chaos. Everyone feared him. Everyone bowed down to this king and his terrible weapon. But, as always, the power fed the darkness in him. The isles drowned in blood. Whole villages were razed to the ground, each man, woman and child slaughtered. He sought out and flayed each druid he could find, sacrificing them in horrific blood eagles. All sacrifices for Svællenblodd. The remaining druids and the priestesses fled the isles, praying to their gods for help as they left in long boats, crowded with other refugees who feared the king’s punishments. Even nature fled. Fishing nets came up empty. Deer and boar and bear alike vanished from the forests. The trees themselves seemed to wither, and flowers refused to bloom._

_The king was not satisfied. He proclaimed to his own kingdom, the only place not ravaged by him, that he intended to take the fight even further. He wished to conquer the Continent, the entire world, and then wage war with the gods themselves._

_But the gods heard him. They heard the prayers of druids and priestesses, of the fleeing animals and dying plants, of the souls who perished under his conquest. And they were afraid. For just as the king had struck down the immortal warrior, they knew that this terrible sword could strike them down, too. _

_So they called upon their greatest powers. They called upon the might of nature itself. Together, the gods struck down not just the king who wielded the sword, not just his children, not just his family, but his entire kingdom. Some say that they razed it to the ground with lightning, hurricanes, gale and flames all concentrated within the kingdoms borders, and not an inch outside. Others say the gods took to their horses, descended down into the kingdom, and slaughtered it by their own hand, reducing it to shadow and rubble. And some say that the mountain itself swallowed the kingdom whole, that the haunted souls of the kingdom can still be heard in the belly of the earth._

_A long tale, a very dramatic one at that, yet not one often heard on the archipelago. Many details are unknown: the kingdom’s name, where it was located, whether the king and his neighbours were even human, or if they were some other race. Some details can be explained away – the destruction of the kingdom could have happened in many ways without the gods’ interference, an avalanche for example. Kings do not need magic swords to commit atrocities towards his own people, too. Our dear old Radovid is proof of that, along with half the other rulers in history. And the outlawed god of war and destruction, Svalblod, is most likely a bastardised version of Svællenblodd. _

_But this story intrigued me, perhaps because it relates to my own predicament. The sword that killed the immortal warrior. Not much can explain the sword. There are references to god-killing weapons all over the land. The Zerrikanians have one, the Far North has one, the various religions all across Ofier each have one. The elves, the dwarves, the halflings, the gnomes, they all too have their own versions, deep within their cultures’ lore. All with the common theme – a weapon, usually made of metal, with the power to even kill gods. _

_When a similar detail appears in two myths, that’s usually coincidence. But when these details start appearing in multiple, vastly unrelated cultures, there is usually a grain of truth hidden somewhere in the tale. _

_I have seen…terrible things. And I know that even more terrible things lie beyond our world still. Magic rules our world like some fifth element, a force of nature on its own to be reckoned with. So I think that the metal in the story could actually exist – though probably isn’t crafted from the blood of an ancient god. Moreover, perhaps this metal specifically reacts to creatures with immortality, like gods or the immortal warrior in the story. In the same way that some monsters can only be harmed with silver, perhaps immortals can only be harmed with this very special metal. Would it truly kill them? Perhaps so. I believe that no creature is truly immortal. Even the gods themselves can be struck down. So surely things like vampires and devils can be susceptible to something, anything? And perhaps this metal, like Svællenblodd’s gift that threatened to bring down the old gods, would be enough to harm them. _

_I know that ginger bastard would love to hear of this. He’d probably search the ends of the earth for such a thing, in hopes it would free him from his contract. But curse him! He is the reason I am blind and confined to this circular prison. Besides, not only would I have to get my hands on some of this metal myself, but I’d have to find an immortal to experiment on. _

_In cruel irony, I do know of one immortal. Two, counting that ginger bastard, but as a simple cursed human, with no natural immortality, he does not count. Whereas…_

_No. I do not want to think about him. _

_Enough of this. Enough of these tales of horror, of mad kings and massacred islands. My mind is fraught enough; I can do without analysing these upsetting tales, theorising about weapons that would do me not one jot of good. _

_I shall sleep instead. Amelie will be waiting for me._

What a cryptic and unsettling read. Skelligans really do have some bloody, terrible stories.

“Do you think this metal is like the one in the story?” Regis asks.

“Well, it does not seem to affect humans or elves. I have seen others touch it without getting hurt. But like the story says, this one not only had the powers to burn me, but also creates wounds that are failing to heal.” Gwenllian sighs. “Obviously, this is not a metal created from hell by some terrible monstrous god. But Shakeslock was right; there is often a grain of truth in these stories. If there was a metal that existed which could kill immortal beings like us without the aid of another vampire…well, it is upsetting to think about.”

“I agree.” The diary entry has only filled Regis with even more dread.

“I think you should take it.” Gwenllian closes up the bag again. “I am sick of this accursed necklace in my house, filling me with dread. And you strike me as a well-read man. Perhaps you can figure out more about this metal.”

Regis finds himself feeling reluctant to take the necklace. In fact, he has to fight the urge to take the bag and throw it out of the window.

But he takes it. The bag provides a buffer for that feeling of dread, which he’s thankful for. Even so, he instantly puts the bag down on the table. He has no desire to hold it for too long.

“Thank you. I shall conduct further research into this. If I find out any more information, I shall send a raven messenger to tell you. Perhaps it can help heal your wound, or at least ease the pain. After all,” he says with a wry smile, “we outcast vampires need to stick together.”

Gwenllian smiles sharply at this. “Yes, you are right…It is nice to speak to another vampire after all this time. Honestly, I have missed it.” Her smile fades quickly, though. “Be careful, though. Especially if you venture south.”

“South? Why south?” He frowns.

“…I assume you know about the Night of Long Fangs?”

He feels as if someone has stabbed him with an icy dagger. Right into his heart, tearing it apart, spreading a cold frost across his chest.

“…Yes.”

“Nothing official has happened, I have only heard whispers and gossip carried to me from ravens – I like to keep informed about Nilfgaardian’s territories, considering my…history. But some ravens told me about the disaster. Not so much about why it happened, or how, but of the response. Word has it that Toussaint has hired a mage. His official role is to help with grape blight and other such useless things, but rumour has it he is trying to find a way to fight back against us vampires. In a permanent way.” She gestures to the necklace. “If the likes of him were to find out about this metal, weaponize it in some way like in Shakeslock’s story…” She shakes her head. “Be careful, Regis. Keep your identity hidden, at all costs.”

He nods. She doesn’t have to convince him of that. “…Thank you, Gwenllian. Though I must ask, did you tell Tye about this?”

To his great relief, she shakes her head. “No, I did not. He was an odd man. I found myself intrinsically disliking him, being wary of him, even if he was a nervous wreck most of the time. Why?”

“Never mind. Don’t worry yourself about it.”

She shakes herself. “Ah, I am glad to get rid of that thing…Now, you must excuse me. I must go collect some possessions before I flee this city.”

“Where will you go?”

“I am still undecided.” She tilts her head. “I suppose Kovir and Poviss may be nice, though it is terribly cold and rainy. And I long to return to warmer temperatures. Who knows, perhaps I shall go east? Unless it is cold. Then I shall reconsider.” She rummages in her bag, and takes out a few glass vials and a bag of seeds. Each vial has a floral scent. “Give these to your little fox. They are essential oils and seeds from Ofieri flora. Lotus, jasmine, Ofieri orchid, orange flower, hibiscus, strangler fig.”

Regis accepts them. “Is this an apology for trying to kill him?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. True, it was just business – nothing personal – but I suppose I feel regret over our altercation. In fact, my apology should really extend to all of you. I am sorry for trying to kill you.”

“Thank you. I apologise for trying to kill you as well.” Regis smiles. “I do hope you find somewhere nice to settle down, Gwenllian. Good luck on your journey.”

“Good bye, Regis.” Gwenllian smiles. “Take care of yourself. And be careful.” She waves her hand in farewell, then walks to the open window. She transforms into blue fog, and filters out through the cracks, out onto the roofs of Novigrad and into the night.

The second she’s gone, dread latches onto Regis like a parasite. His mind is crowded with thoughts of the ominous Crone, of Tye, of his dying friend, of this terrible burning metal. Carefully, he scoops up the drawstring bag. He needs to inform the others of this.

Gently waking up Ameer, Regis escorts him to Yennefer’s room. Ameer sleepily follows him, too lethargic to notice Regis’s unsettled expression. He doesn’t even ask about Gwenllian – to be honest, he’s probably forgotten already.

When they reach Yennefer’s door, and Regis gently knocks on the wooden panel, he expects a delay. She should be asleep by now, after all.

So he’s surprised when she replies immediately. “Come in.” Her voice is subdued, distracted.

Yennefer is sitting on the bed. A nightgown is discarded next to her, forgotten. How long has she been awake? Something is cupped in her hands. Regis can’t quite tell what it is. Something blue.

“What’s that?” He asks.

“Nothing.” She slips it into her pockets. “Did you need something?”

“I…” Regis hesitates. Suddenly, the words dry up in his throat. A terrible metal exists that can cause wounds on vampires which fail to heal properly. Go on. Say it.

But dread chases away his voice. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to forget, just for tonight. He wants to pretend they had a solely pleasant evening. Nothing to worry about, nothing to fear.

Yennefer watches him carefully. Maybe she’s thinking the same thing.

So instead he asks, “…Would it be all right if we stayed here tonight?”

“Yes.” Yennefer says too quickly. For the sake of her pride, she adds, “I suppose that would be fine. Yes.”

Regis smiles. “Thank you.”

Just for tonight, he can forget about the burning metal, bury the dread it causes to the darkest depths of his mind.

After all, there’ll be plenty more dread to come as they travel to find the Crone. It won’t be an easy journey, Regis has no doubt about that.

So tonight, he sleeps soundly. God knows he needs it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of part 1 of this series!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading all this way!! Hopefully it won't be too long before I update part 2 - I have a tumblr account (dol--blathanna) where I will post updates for the story as well!  
Again, thank you so much for reading this story! Thank you for all your kind words, they really make my day!! Hopefully I'll see you all again for part 2!! :)


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